


Tales of a Feather

by Acherona, trulywicked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Fluff, Greek mythology used in murders, Jealousy, Johnlock freeform, Love, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Tension, Tattoos, Violence, mystrade, our boys being oblivious, the boys will get there eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:04:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 71,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acherona/pseuds/Acherona, https://archiveofourown.org/users/trulywicked/pseuds/trulywicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an old friend comes to visit John, the lives of the Baker Street boys are turned upside down once more. Great loss, vicious murders and evil lurking in the shadows are only the beginning. Will this case finally bring Sherlock and John together or will it drive them apart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So, here's another Sherlock story from us. This is actually the first multi-chaptered Sherlock fic we wrote but we're only getting around to post it now. 
> 
> It was a blast to write and we hope you like it.
> 
> Please enjoy...

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun._

**Warning:** _Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually._

**Tales of a Feather.**

**_Chapter One._ **

Sharp, changeably colored eyes studied the two men talking and laughing about flies and sand and ungodly heat while elegant, long fingers plucked at violin strings and occasionally drew the bow across in a deliberate screech in an attempt to draw attention. The only shift or change he saw when he did so however, was the ever so slight twitch of annoyance at the corner of his flatmate’s mouth. He was being studiously ignored by John and casually ignored by the man who’d ‘dropped by’ to visit.

He’d already gathered the relationship of their visitor to John in the first few seconds after he’d stepped into the flat. Tanned, in the same way John had been when they’d first met, no stiffness of limbs, limping, or obvious scars so no major injuries. Wore his dog tags outside his shirt, plainly visible to everyone so proud of them and what they represented. Greeted John warmly and received warmth in return, brief moment of commentary on how much better John looked since the last time they’d seen each other so an old comrade who’d been there when John had been injured, a member of the same unit.

Jeans were well worn, frayed at the back ends so just a bit too long for his legs, off the rack then and never bothered to be hemmed up so no tailor, button up shirt, cuffs rolled to his elbows, enjoying the cool weather, scuffed and battered military boots, he didn’t bother to change to civilian shoes on his return to England, pride in being a soldier again but also showing no need to replace military for civilian footwear, he’ll be going back soon. Very soon as there were still grains of sand and residue from Heathrow on his boots so he’d come directly from the airport.

To see John first, a very close friend then. Sherlock wasn’t certain he liked that. He was used to seeing John just be polite, maybe a bit closed off even, with everyone but himself and he wasn’t entirely sure he approved of someone else getting truly warm smiles from John while he was being ignored. So he was making himself as much of an annoyance of himself as he could, rather unsuccessfully at that which didn’t help his temper. 

John was very much aware of his flatmate, it was hard not to when the man set out to be as annoying as he could be. He was nearly up to the standard he set when Mycroft came to lurk. Usually he would do his best to defuse any pouting or dark moods but right now he was not in the mood for it. He hadn’t seen Bill since he’d left Afghanistan, still doped up and bandaged from being shot. Why didn’t Sherlock go and do some experiments or something, he had a very nice foot in the fridge just waiting for his poking.

Trying his best to put the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes out of his mind, John laughed happily at the story Bill was telling him, picturing it happening easily.

“Then Rag, of course had to try it. He turned three shades of purple and up it came, along with breakfast.” 

Sherlock plucked again at the jovial tone. Really, what was so humorous or interesting about someone being foolish enough to eat a raw, wriggling beetle larvae on some odd bet then vomiting it as soon as they swallowed? It was incomprehensible. Were these the sort of things John had done to alleviate boredom in Afghanistan and if so could he really blame Sherlock for occasionally shooting the woodwork?

Bill grinned at his old friend, “Course things got right dull without Three Continents Watson there.”

Sherlock paused before drawing his bow across the strings again. Three Continents Watson? A nickname obviously, but what from?

“Shut up you silly bugger, no one uses that name.” It was said fondly but John shot a quick look Sherlock’s way as the top of his ears turned slightly red. “And I doubt very much it got dull in a warzone. All I did anyway was patch your sorry arses up when you’d been out being stupid.” John stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. “Rag and Sam are bound to have kept you entertained, with their utterly moronic ways if nothing else.”

“Yeah a bit. And Macy uses the name, loud when cursing the new medic especially,” he grinned at John and waggled his brows, “She misses your ‘light touch’ she says,” he laughed at the kick John gave him. “And she’s not the only one I imagine. Masses of girls the world over lament Johnny-boy living at home now.”

Sherlock quirked a brow as John’s ears got redder and the blush spread over his cheeks. That was an interesting reaction, embarrassment over having a few encounters with the fairer sex?

“You are so full of it Billy, always have been. Why I even like you I don’t know.” John was blushing and chuckling at the same time, remembering Macy and their cupboard encounters fondly. “Besides, living at home isn’t so bad, it has its moments.” Being a locum was not exciting, not after having dug out bullets with his bare hands and patched up chest wounds with nothing but tape. Living with Sherlock Holmes was another thing entirely; it certainly fed his need for action and his search for an adrenaline kick. 

“Yeah I know. All of us read your blog when we can. Wild stuff mate,” he glanced over at where Sherlock was sitting, violin still in hand, staring at them then angled his head that way, “He uh, he really do that stuff? Figuring everything out about someone like that?”

“You’re on a brief leave from your unit, came straight from Heathrow airport in a rented car which you parked a block and a half away, on the plane you drank only water and turned down the peanuts because you’re allergic to them, you’re not just proud of being a soldier you like to advertise the fact that you are because it makes picking up women easier, you come from money but you don’t like the company your family keeps, likely because they look down on your military service, and your hearing is partially damaged in your right ear.” Sherlock ended his rapid fire deduction and looked out the window, leaving John’s friend to gape at him before turning a questioning look to John.

John just raised an eyebrow, feeling strangely proud of Sherlock. “Yes, as you can see he really does that stuff, he also has excellent hearing and can answer perfectly for himself without having to be spoken about in third person.” John’s lips quirked upwards. “He nearly got everything right too didn’t he? Nearly.” He knew the nearly would grate on Sherlock but he felt allowed the satisfaction of teasing his genius a little. Wait? What? His? Where the bloody, buggering hell did that come from?

Sherlock twitched at the nearly, though the brief confusion that flicked through John’s normally stoic expression was curious, and proceeded to pluck at his violin again and ponder what he might have missed.

Bill nodded, “Yeah pretty much. Bit freaky.”

As if that was a unique sentiment. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the predictable reaction to his deductions. To date John was still the only one who’d not expressed that exact or a similar opinion.

“Come on Billy, it’s not freaky, it’s fantastic. You have to admit that. You’re only pissy because you consider yourself a mystery man, something for the boys and girls to ponder as you sweep them off their feet, or up against a wall, whatever is closer.” How had the conversation turned to the subject of Sherlock? It always did since the man owned every room he stepped into but it still baffled him a little. 

Sherlock’s lips twitched just a bit at the quiet defense though he certainly didn’t need it. Still it did something, warmed something within him, as it always did. He also registered the ‘boys’ as well as girls in John’s statement so that was what he’d gotten wrong. Not just women he picked up then.

Bill lifted his hands, “Didn’t mean it in a bad way. Sides most people like to think they’ve a secret or two and for the record Johnny you swept plenty a skirt off her feet, least twice as much as me.” 

John Watson? Promiscuous ladies man? Sherlock pondered that. It was a bit odd really considering John’s apparent celibacy since moving in with him. Or it would be if John wasn’t chasing the women who were the relationship type. Rather difficult to have a relationship long enough to fall into bed if you and your dates were continually shot at. He didn’t bother to stifle the smug satisfaction that gave him. John deserved better than some wilting violet who’d never understand him anyway.

“Yes well, everyone has a past and we’ve all done some wild things in our youth.” John wasn’t in the habit of lying so he couldn’t deny what Bill had said. Besides he wasn’t really ashamed of it. John liked girls, he liked sex and he seemed to be good at it. He still liked sex, he just didn’t have any these days. All his time was spent trailing Sherlock through the London streets and loving every moment of it, almost every moment at least. He could do without some of the insults and experiments. And he definitely could do without Anderson, the man was just repelling in every way.

“Right,” Bill chuckled, “Want to join me for a pint then? See if I’ve still got it with the native birds and blokes? Play my wingman?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Ugh, dull. How could John stand it? There were so many better things to do than sit in a pub catching up on old war stories and prowling for an easy sexual encounter.

“Sure, why not? I could wet my throat. Just don’t go all cranky when all your preferred lovelies go for me instead.” John smirked, actually looking forward to a night out. They didn’t have a case at the moment and staying inside with Sherlock’s eye-rolling did not seem all that tempting. Especially not with all the weird thoughts he’d been having lately. A pub night with a good friend who understood the soldier side of him might just be what he needed. 

“Oh a challenge,” Bill rose to his feet and glanced over at Sherlock before offering in polite awkwardness, “Er I don’t suppose you-”

“No,” Sherlock started tuning his violin in preparation for some real playing, “I don’t find merit in frequenting pubs or drinking.” Not unless it involved a case or unless he would be able to pick apart the people in the pub to John and for some reason John wasn’t as appreciative of his skills when he did that.

“Right then,” John got up as well, rolling his shoulder a little to loosen it up after having bit sitting still for quite a bit. “No shooting the walls, no burning the flat down and no blood or body parts in the kettle.” He gave Sherlock a stern look. “I’ve got my phone so if there’s anything just text me okay.”

Sherlock only made an acknowledging hum and continued to fiddle with his violin until John and his friend had left. Then he began to play, his fingers moving on autopilot while he let his mind whir and sort and file things away. 

He greatly disliked John’s friend, the same way he disliked the women John dated. The reason was simple and he understood himself well. He didn’t like them taking John’s attention away from him. As far as he was concerned John had been [i]his[/i] since the very first ‘amazing’ had fallen from his lips. Not in a completely sexual way, at least certainly not at first, but just in the way of someone having found something special and not wanting to share.

John was special. There truly was no one like him. Who else, upon having their life so brutally and effectively dissected and then spread out before them in concise words, would have called it ‘amazing’ or ‘extraordinary’? Who else would have killed a man for someone he’d only known for a day and a half? For that matter who else could even put up with Sherlock for as long as John had without resentment or judgment? He knew just how trying he was to others, knew, in a vague manner, that some of his experiments were far from what even the most stalwart could stomach. He knew it, he simply didn’t care. It was who he was and how he operated and he was not about to change just to conform to some ridiculous societal standard.

And to date only John H. Watson not only managed to live with it without trying to change him but had also managed to slide in to fit with his own patterns and quirks. John didn’t try to change him like many others nor did he try to control him like Mycroft. He was simply a steady, supportive presence with a gift of saying just the right thing at the right time to clear the fog away and make everything turn crystal clear. John was also a guide to him in the moments when he wanted to step...softer. John didn’t tell him that he should or should not do this or that but he let him know, in gentle, non-condemnatory ways, that he’d stepped over some social line. John didn’t poke fun at him maliciously and he only ever truly insulted him when he’d done something hurtful to John.

So John was special, precious to him in a way that nothing and no one else was or would ever be. He was also quite attractive if Sherlock were to be honest. The strong, broad body moved with easy efficiency, no wasted energy or motions, and always with purpose. Even under the jumpers the observant could tell that John was very fit and now, with the comments on his sexual conquests, Sherlock found himself wondering if John brought the efficiency and purpose from his everyday life into bed with him. 

That thought made him pause for half a moment as he let it sink in to his mind and then he resumed playing, the music slipping unconsciously into a gypsy aire that spoke to passion and heat. He didn’t hear the music as he played unless he hit a sour note, what helped him to think was the movement, translating his thoughts into something tangible.

Willfully ignorant of social situations as he was, he’d not noticed his own admiration of John changing from simply valuing his faithful companionship and appreciation to something deeper until he’d seen him strapped with enough explosives to level a city block. That had brought into sharp relief that he [i]cared[/i] about John. He no longer just valued what John did for him but he cared about the man himself, so much it had hurt in those breathless moments when he’d thought he might lose the other man, in one way or another.

Once aware of that it had been a natural progression to being physically attracted to John though that had gotten muddled up in the mess with The Woman. Ridiculous now that he had time and distance from Irene Adler to sort it all out. Never had been about the woman, no it had been the mystery of her and the intrigue of someone getting the upper hand on him that had turned his head so badly. Mycroft, loathe though he was to admit it even in the privacy of his own thoughts, had been right. He had played the fool in that affair and set any progress of changing the status quo with John to something more intimate back to square one.

And today did not help matters. Once again he had an outside source telling him of John’s rampant heterosexuality. ‘Girls the world over’ indeed. If only there were some way of getting John to take the Kinsey test without him realizing what it was a test about. Unfortunately John was not a fool, he’d recognize the questions as being part of a test on sexuality and Sherlock was not interested in the questions that would inevitably follow from the man.

He flowed from gypsy music into some intense Vivaldi then into Scottish reels, time losing meaning in the flow of movement and the wash of notes as he played and waited for John to return.

**oOoOoOo**

Even though smoking had been forbidden inside pubs, clubs and dance floors the place still smelled faintly of smoke, beer, perfume and hidden sweat. It was comforting in a way that certain things didn’t change. John watched Bill move through the room, eyes on a sweet looking blonde girl with amusement as he lipped at his second pint lazily. He’d offered Bill to kip on their couch if he didn’t have a place to stay but as it looked now, Billy would get lucky with his blonde. 

John’d had his eyes on a girl too, a pretty redhead, he’d always have a fondness for redheads but as the evening progressed her hair hadn’t been wild or curly enough and her smile was too sweet so John had let her go, let her get swept up by a man that could offer her more than he could as he’d had another internal panic attack. 

It wasn’t being attracted to a man that had him reeling, he’d grown up with a lesbian sister after all and he was more than confident in himself to recognize beauty in the male form as well as the female. No, it was being attracted to Sherlock that scared the life out of him. The detective had made it perfectly clear that first dinner that he was married to his work and more than that, he was the most important person in John’s life. The one that had saved him from bone weary loneliness, his best friend. John did not want to risk what they had. He couldn’t lose Sherlock, that would destroy him so it was better to keep looking at girls and savor the friendship he did have with the other man.

John finished his second pint, it was time to pack it in and go home. He never drank much, he knew firsthand what too much alcohol did to a person. He stood from his chair and looked around for Billy, wanting to tell him that he was going home.

Bill looked up from flirting with the blond at a tap on his shoulder and grinned, “Hey Johnny, Lyssa this is my old army mate who patched me up.” He tilted his head, remembering that John wasn’t one for getting smashed, “You headed back to your place then?”

“I am yes.” John nodded even as he automatically flashed a smile in the blonde...Lyssa’s direction. “If you have time then call me before you head off again. Other than that you just play nice.” His smile grew a little wider. “I’m off then.” 

Bill gave him a salute, “Alright. I’ll ring you up and I always play nice Dr. Watson. Watch yourself on the way home mate.”

“You know me; I am Mr. cautious and careful. It was a pleasure meeting you Miss Lyssa.” He nodded his head in greeting and walked out of the pub. Since it wasn’t very far to Baker Street, John decided to walk and save himself the cab fare.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head out almost as soon as John had opened the door, “Did you two have a row dear? He’s been doing that,” she waved to indicate the violin music floating down from the flat and filling the stairwell, “since you left with your old friend.”

John tilted his head and listened to the notes filling the air. “No row Mrs. Hudson. My friend and I just went to the pub. You know that’s not Sherlock’s preferred venue. He’s probably just thinking and waiting for Lestrade to call.” He took his jacket off and hung it over his arm, one foot on the stairs. “And how are you Mrs. Hudson? I hope the hip isn’t acting up too much.”

“Not at all dear. Well you go on up and see to Sherlock and I’ll go back to my telly.”

“You do that and have a nice evening; I’ll try to keep things from getting too loud upstairs.” John smiled to himself as he walked up the stairs. Go on up and see Sherlock...Not, go on up home. Well that said a lot about his life he supposed. Shaking his head slightly he opened the door, the music sounding louder as he hung his jacket neatly on a hook and moved in to the living room, watching Sherlock stand in front of the window playing.

Sherlock had, by now, worked his way out of fast, passionate pieces as his thoughts drove him further inward, the problem of John Watson weighing heavy on his mind and his music had taken on a sad, heart-breakingly lonely tone. It was actually a piece he’d played many times as a child when he’d felt particularly estranged from the rest of his peers and, before John entered his life, it had often jumped from his fingers after a particularly nasty run in with Donovan and Anderson once he’d played out the temper it ignited anyway.

The sad notes made John’s heart clench and he wondered not for the first time what really went on in that massively brilliant mind. Sherlock must be lost in his own head as he didn’t seem to have noticed that John was home. Watching his flatmate for a few moments longer, John walked to the kitchen to flick the kettle on. He very much doubted that Sherlock had made his own tea or eaten anything while he was away. 

It was the smell of the kettle heating on the stove that brought Sherlock out of him head and back to reality. One long slow blink and then he was setting the violin down and shifting his position in the room so that he could see John’s back as he made tea. “I presume your friend found a conquest for the evening.”

“Yup, you knew he would or you would have been much crankier about me offering him the couch.” John’s voice was calm as he looked through the fridge and cupboards, working his way around something yellowish green in a bowl and the severed foot. “Pasta or eggs? You are going to eat something so what do you want? The pasta or the eggs are the only thing we have that looks somewhat safe.” John knew better than to ask about the music choice, even though he was curious about it.

“Your insistence on feeding me remains oddly baffling,” Sherlock picked up a book, flipping through the pages as his foot tapped and wiggled, “Eggs, less work.”

“You’re nearly skinny enough to break in half and no matter that it is only a transport the body still needs fuel. Eggs it is then.” He brought the eggs out and placed them on the counter before reaching for a pan, deciding on scrambled eggs. John felt oddly tense, and his mind was lightly buzzed, even from two pints. Gods, he really was a light weight these days.

Sherlock studied John’s back for a moment, “So how did you save his life?”

“Hm?” Sherlock’s words didn’t really register at first. Cooking was calming, everything happening in turn. “Oh, what makes you think I saved him? I didn’t do anymore than any other soldier in the unit. There was an ambush on the way from one camp to another, if you don’t watch the backs of your comrades you’ll end up with a bullet in yours, it’s that simple.”

“He came, directly from the airport, to see you. Not even a stop off for food when he would have been very hungry, not having eaten anything on the plane. That means you stuck out in his mind more sharply than anything else. Even among comrades that’s a different sort of...connection, something more to it. He wasn’t badly injured, not recently, no twitches or problems moving, no scars, so it wouldn’t have been seeking company of a friend who had been badly hurt. So you did something to stick out in his mind as the first person he wanted to see, to talk to once back in London. So you obviously saved him, possibly at greater risk to yourself than was wise.” Sherlock’s gaze stayed on John, absorbing the body language and movements. He knew John didn’t like to speak of his service so he’d let it drop if he brushed it off again as John was one of the rare people who’s feelings mattered to him.

“Ambush, running, landmine. I only did what friends do for each other.” John made sure the pan was hot before he added the eggs to scramble. “It’s like a different world over there, not sure I could explain even if I wanted to. Now get off that scrawny bum and get the tea ready while I finish the eggs.” He waved the spatula in Sherlock’s direction.

“Lean.” Sherlock set his book aside, “My frame and musculature are lean John.” He pondered simply staying where he was, getting the tea ready was not something he did, but then he chose to do as ‘requested’ as he knew John would have borderline hysterics if the tea was ruined because he’d let it sit too long. John could be very militant about his tea. Of course that was somewhat of a lie to himself. He did as asked because he wanted to be near John, to assure himself in some silent way that John was still his.

“Scrawny is scrawny.” John’s lips quirked up in surprise as Sherlock actually got up and walked over to the kettle, he hadn’t expected that. John always nagged on him to do things and Sherlock always ignored him. 

Sherlock poured the steaming hot water into the mugs holding the teabags and met John’s gaze as he set the kettle back down on a cold burner, “What?”

“You feeling okay?” John’s brows furrowed as looked Sherlock over, trying to see if anything was off physically with his friend. He plucked plates down and loaded them up with eggs and some bacon strips. “Here, eat.”

Sherlock, of course, ignored the eggs in favor of concentrating on John’s question. His head tilted and he examined John, “I am perfectly well John of course.” He was not acting too far out of the norm so as to set up warning flags for his flatmate was he? Then again, if it made John look closer at him perhaps he should act out of character?

John slid into a seat, still watching Sherlock closely. “Okay.” He couldn’t say what it was but something felt...Different but if Sherlock said he was fine then there wasn’t much he could do. Of course Sherlock would say he was fine even if he was bleeding out but without an actual physical wound to treat then John was out of his depth. “You are going to eat though, not on a case so there’s absolutely no excuse not to.”

“I feel certain I could manufacture a plausible reason.” Sherlock poked a bit at the eggs. He knew they would taste good, John’s cooking did, and that once he took one bite others would follow easily enough but that first bite always seemed to take a herculean amount of effort.

“I have no doubt that you could but you won’t. You will eat.” John picked up his own fork and took a bite. He wasn’t really very hungry but he had eaten enough meals on his own to know eating alone was almost worse than not eating at all. He tore his eyes from Sherlock to glare at his hand when he heard the fork clatter lightly against the china of the plate as he put it down. Damned tremor, another effect of two pints...And no life threatening cases.

Sherlock reached across the small distance of the table and gently pressed at a nerve cluster in John’s arm. He did hope that John had fired his therapist as the tremor was obviously not brought on by PTSD but rather because of the nerve damage that had been caused by the bullet that John had taken in his shoulder. When he’d deduced that, Sherlock had found himself studying the methods behind acupuncture unconsciously looking for a way to help John. 

John’s eyes widened, both at the touch, Sherlock was not big on touch of any kind, and the fact that it helped, the tremors stopped. “Right...um...thank you.”

“Clearly the criminal element of London needs to resume service,” Sherlock released John, wondering what had possessed him to do that. Yes he wanted to help John, to show that he...cared but that had obviously made him uncomfortable. He picked up his fork and stabbed a fluffy bite of egg, popping it into his mouth, eyes turning a stormy color as he considered his actions and what drove them. 

When he hit on the answer he nearly dropped his own fork. Jealousy. He knew that he was possessive of John but jealousy was so much more. It was another of those schema altering moments, same as seeing John strapped to a bomb, and it sent his mind into a stuttering halt just as it had done in that one breathless moment he’d thought John had been the one playing him.

John watched emotions flitter across his friend’s face and of course he worried. The ones who said that Sherlock Holmes was unfeeling were complete idiots; Sherlock felt emotions more strongly than most people. John just didn’t know what had brought on the near panicked expression a little while ago. “Are the eggs bad?” 

A blink, “What?” Sherlock’s mind began moving again, “No, they’re...fine.” 

“Don’t worry; there will be some horrid, gruesome murder for you to sink your teeth into soon enough.” John couldn’t think of any other reason for Sherlock’s strange behavior than that he needed a case, something to challenge that amazing brain of his. 

“Hmm one can hope it won’t be a boring one at least,” Sherlock ate a bit more before he found himself staring into space, the end of the utensil rubbing back and forth across his lower lip. Another layer added to his relationship with John, unfortunately not the one he rather would prefer exploring. He had to wonder if he would ever be allowed to explore that layer honestly as John was oblivious.

Oh God, Sherlock wasn’t allowed to do that. John was barely able to tear his eyes away from the handle of the fork rubbing back and forward over that plush, sweet bottom lip. He wanted to slap himself; John could not keep thinking like this, he would do something that would damage the relationship he cared about most. He cleared his throat and looked down at his own half eaten eggs, not looking back up at that tempting mouth. “Ah, I am sure something will entertain you, if nothing else you can pick apart Anderson's floundering at the crime scene.”

Sherlock paused having noticed the way John had [i]stared[/i] at his mouth and the way he was now determined to eye his eggs into movement. Well. Perhaps he could get to that layer more easily than previously considered. He knew he was attractive to others and knew, both from his own observations on people’s reactions to him and from what others had ‘gushed’ over telling him, exactly how to use it. Since John was now refusing to look at him, he’d have to use his voice. He purposely dropped it an octave, watching John carefully for reaction as he very nearly purred, “Yes, that is always fun.”

John shivered, that low burr was illegal, or at least it should be. He automatically shoved some more eggs into his mouth, not tasting anything. There was no way this would end well; he needed to control himself better than this. John lived with the king of deduction, these feelings, this need to reach out and touch had to go away or at least be buried inside as deep as could be. “See,” He cleared his throat again and reached for his tea. “No need to get bored then.”

Sherlock’s eyes were almost boring a hole into John’s face, “Did I say I was?”

“No, I was, I was talking about the hypothetical case of the future...That it not be boring.” John sounded like a twat, stumbling over his words and he could feel the tip of his ears go red again.

“You’re looking decidedly uncomfortable John, are you feeling hot?”

“No it’s fine, I’m fine.” John licked his lips nervously, finally looking back up at Sherlock. John might be an idiot but he wasn’t a coward, never had been. “It’s just been an intense day, with Billy and a few pints and everything.”

“Everything?” Sherlock leaned minutely closer, his eyes sweeping over John, taking in every detail, “What is included in that everyth-” his mobile phone chimed, interrupting him.

John exhaled in relief; it was terrifying, having all of Sherlock’s focus on you. It made John want to tell him anything and everything. He hoped whatever text Sherlock had gotten would be enough to derail his interest.

Sherlock glanced at his phone, brows knitting, “It’s from Lestrade, he has a case for us.” For once he was not particularly excited about a case as this interrupted his attempt to see if John was perhaps more open to the possibility of them growing closer than previously thought. “Half a block from The Cock in Splendor.” he stood up from the table already moving toward his coat.

“What?” John’s brows drew tight over his the bridge of his nose. He was already up from his chair too and the plates were in the sink. He hurried after Sherlock. “The Cock in Splendor? That was where Bill and I were.” He grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it even as Sherlock was already on his way down the stairs.

Mind already on the case at hand, despite his disappointment in the interruption, Sherlock merely called back over his shoulder, “Good, perhaps you or your friend spotted something.” He opened the door, turning to see that John was right behind him, “Not that I expect either of you would have noticed even if you had.”

John fell into step with Sherlock again once they were out on the street. “As long as it’s not Billy that the case is about then I really don’t give much of a buggering fuck what we saw or not.” Despite everything, despite the worry in his gut, John already felt the adrenaline pumping.

Sherlock hailed a taxi and got in, John following and soon they were at the crime scene, Donovan as usual ‘guarding’ the taped off area. He swept out of the taxi and headed for her, rules of engagement required her knowledge of his presence after all.

“Should have known you were coming, can’t have any peace from you Freak.” Sally reluctantly stood still as Sherlock and his steady companion lifted the tape and walked inside the crime scene area. “Well enjoy it while you can, one day soon someone on the force is going to find out you do more harm than good.” Having been proved wrong about her accusations of Sherlock had not softened her attitude toward him one bit. In fact once Sherlock returned from the dead and were cleared of all charges of being a fake, Sally only liked him less and she wasn’t shy about voicing her dislike.

John glared at her, she might be a tolerably good police officer but she was a thoroughly unpleasant woman. After Sherlock’s fall he hadn’t been able to look at her without wanting to punch her in the face and he still felt that way now. “If that is the case than maybe the Yard should stop calling him when they are stuck. Until then maybe you should keep your mouth shut and your mind on the actual case, isn’t that what you are paid to do?”

Sherlock halted and almost stumbled in mid-step, turning to stare at John in shock, gratingly similar to the way Donovan was doing. John hadn’t done that before, struck out at either Donovan or Anderson like that. Normally he made his distaste with their pettiness quite clear without saying a word. “I would imagine Sally here is merely disappointed that her plans for the evening were interrupted,” he met the woman’s glare, “so it goes to reason that Anderson will likely be more bumbling than usual as well. Is his wife away for long?” He gave Sally a smirk.

It was easy to tell that Donovan wanted to tear into Sherlock Holmes but with the exception of her glare intensifying and her back tensing she didn’t say anything.

“I don’t care about her sexual frustration. She was rude, she ‘is’ wrong and she knows it.” John was not in the mood to put up with the way Donovan or anyone really put Sherlock down. No fuck that, it was time to take a stand. 

“No need to concern yourself with tiny minds and their problems when there’s a case to be solved John.” That curl of warmth unfurled stronger than before as he and John made their way into the alley, passing a very pale Anderson who, oddly enough, just glanced up, twitched a bit, the proceeded to ignore them. Sherlock’s attention sharpened. Bad then, to have Anderson cowed. He looked up as Lestrade came out of the darker part of the alley, blood soaking into the anti-contamination slip-covers on his feet and the knees of the blue suit, grim eyes with banked anger behind them, Lestrade always got so angry when someone was murdered in London. It was a good quality for a police officer so long as it remained controlled.

“Sherlock.”

“Victim’s name?”

“William Murray, age thirty-five on leave from military service in Afghanistan,” Lestrade stopped speaking when he saw John’s face, “John?”

“No!” It couldn’t be Bill, John could not accept that, Bill loved life, had survived war. He couldn’t have come home just to die like this. He couldn’t. “He was fine, a little tipsy, pulled a pretty girl. I just saw him. No...”

‘Lestrade reached out, gripping John’s arm, “Look maybe you should go sit outside the tape with-”

“Like hell.” John shook Lestrade’s hand off of him and walked toward the alley with purpose. He was not going to sit this out. If it really was Bill who was gone then John was going to be right there, find out who had done it and put a bullet in their brain. It was as easy as that. 

Sherlock swept up behind John before he could enter the alley and caught him round the shoulders, pulling him back against him so he could murmur in his ear, “John I need you to calm down.”

“I’m calm, perfectly calm.” John protested. “Look, entirely steady.” He held both his hands out so Sherlock could see. Normally he would have loved feeling the length of Sherlock’s body pressed along his back but not now. Now Sherlock was keeping him back. “I’m not going to be some poor sad sod on the sidelines. I was his commanding officer you know, he was under my watch and did not do a good job of watching him here did I?”

“This is what I mean John. This isn’t Afghanistan, it’s not your responsibility to watch over a man you’ve served with here and you can’t take that on. Not now.” His hand squeezed the shoulder it was gripping, “I’m going to need you John. I’m going to need you to be steady to help me because if you aren’t then Lestrade will keep [i]both[/i] of us out. Not that we’d go but it’s easier to be here with his consent.”

Every single muscle in John’s body was coiled tight; even his teeth were clenched so hard he was already getting a headache from it. He heard what Sherlock was saying, he did, he was just not sure he was willing to hear it. Bill had been one of his best friends, more of a brother than Harry had ever been a sister. John would always be responsible, no matter what anyone else said. “Fine, I won’t charge in. I’ll play nice but I will kill them Sherlock, not even you are going to stop me from doing that.”

“Keep your voice down,” it was quiet, a sort of homage to the first case they worked together, as well as a simple statement that he wouldn’t stop John from his course if that was what he wanted. He slowly let him go and stepped back, glancing at Lestrade and nodding.

The DI walked back in ahead of them, there wasn’t any way to keep John out, not if this was someone he’d served with, “Alright, it’s not pretty and the first sign of a problem I’m taking you out of here.” He nodded at the others of the forensic team to move and felt his gorge rise again at the sight of the man fixed to the fire escape, arms stretched wide, blood covering his chest from the marks carved into it, poured down his face from his missing eyes. “Anderson thinks it’s a failed med-student.”

“Yes well, how often is Anderson right?” Sherlock looked briefly at Lestrade and then began to pace around the dangling corpse, putting the latex gloves on. Still clothed from the waist down though the belt buckle was undone, interrupted in the middle of an assignation? He leaned close to get a better look at the marks carved into his chest, too wide for a scalpel though well executed to be so precise. No hesitation marks on the chest or round the eyes so whoever had done this had no problem with carving a design into a living person’s body or cutting out their eyes.

John was a little later to watch the body since he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes and had to don the coveralls before he walked close. He’d promised to play nice after all. Oh Bill. John remained stony faced even though his heart was hurting so badly inside him. 

“This is not the work of a failed med-student, even I can see that. Just because Anderson is one doesn’t mean every other moron is.” John nearly reached out to touch the caduceus carved into his friend’s chest. “First rule, do no harm.” It was just a murmur under his breath. “Where are his dog tags? He never took them off, never.” John looked around on the ground but he couldn’t see them anywhere.

Lestrade let John’s comment pass, mainly because he agreed that Anderson was obscenely wrong about the med student. “We’ll have the team looking for them.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “No, not a medical student, not any sort of experience with medical training at all. There aren’t hesitation marks but the eye sockets have deep gouges into the side, the killer didn’t know how to remove them, it wouldn’t surprise me if the medical examiner finds vitreous fluid mixed in with the blood. This wasn’t done with a scalpel, the marks are too wide,” he narrowed his eyes and turned the victim’s head to see a tiny peacock feather tattooed just behind his ear, “This is fresh.”

John leaned in to look, nodding when he saw the tattoo. “Bill never liked tattoos, he never even got a military one and he was so very proud to be serving his country. Also you are very much right, though that’s not exactly news. I was very handy with a scalpel once and this is not made by one. I would say box-cutter; you know the large industrial ones.” If calm and steady was what Sherlock needed him to be to figure this out then John could do that. It would allow him to punish the guilty party that much sooner. 

“Or a similar blade,” Sherlock’s voice was low as he reached up to inspect what bound the man to the fire escape. Shackles, old style, with lilies stamped on the metal, silver leaf embossing them. 

Lestrade looked up at one of the forensic team, “Find the tags?”

“No sir, we’ll do another sweep but-”

“You won’t find them,” Sherlock stepped back and began striding toward the mouth of the alley, “She took them.”

“She?” John immediately got a picture of the sweet looking blonde in his head but he couldn’t jump to conclusions. He gave his long time friend another glance. “I am so sorry Billy, so fucking sorry.” 

He bowed his head before following Sherlock, rushing to catch up with the tall man. “Where did she keep the shackles? It had to be planned, that she would meet someone because those shackles aren’t exactly the kind you can walk around with in your purse.” 

“Oi hold on!,” Lestrade made to cut them off, “I have to ask John some questions, not to mention you need to explain the ‘she’ bit Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt irritation rise but he paused in his step and half turned, moving closer to John automatically, as if to protect him.

John heaved a sigh and turned to meet the DI’s gaze. “You still have work to do here detective inspector and it is not as if you don’t know how to find me. I’ll answer all of your questions, you know I will but for now, please Greg, please let Sherlock do what he does.” 

“He can go on ahead but you’re a witness after a fashion so I have to question you now John. There are rules can’t be broken in this job and that’s one of them.” He made to take John’s arm to guide him to a more private corner of the alley, out of view of the body, then found himself staring as Sherlock subtly intercepted him and nudged John over to the shadowed corner he’d been about to pull him to.

Sherlock met Lestrade’s eyes briefly then leaned on the wall, letting his mind pick and sift through all the evidence so far.

It was surprising, a little bit startling. Also it was more comforting than John would like to admit, still this was not how Sherlock usually behaved, John had been left behind at enough crime scenes to know that. Still he felt a bone deep gratitude that Sherlock was still there. 

“Go on then detective inspector, ask your questions.” John had silently slipped into his Captain persona. Back straight, speech short and to the point, it was all he could do right now not to shatter.

Lestrade sighed, he hated questioning people he knew but he bloody well wouldn’t leave this to Donovan, “How long ago did you last see Mr. Murray?”

Sherlock tuned the simple, boring questions and answers out. It was all roughly things he already knew or could deduce. He paid closer attention when Lestrade asked for a description of the woman.

John closed his eyes for a moment, trying to bring up the image of the inside of the pub, of Bill and of the woman in question. “Blonde woman, around mid to late twenties. Hair was swept up, out of her face and twisted into a braid that kept it back. Some sort of silver flower earrings. White top, blue skirt, about my height. Bill introduced her as Lyssa. She didn’t seem daring or vulgar or anything like that, a sweet young woman out to have a good time.”

“Right,” Lestrade scribbled down in a notepad, “We’ll see if the CCTV cameras got a good shot of her face but if they didn’t I might have to get you to the Met later, sit down with a sketch artist.” He gave Sherlock a nearly demanding look, “Now you wanna share why you think it’s a she?”

Sherlock gave him a small smirk, “Hera.”

“What?”

He rolled his eyes, “Honestly did you skip the classical Greek portion of your education? Hera. Queen of the gods.” 

“Of course.” John’s eyes widened as he really took in what Sherlock said. “The peacock feather, the white top, it all makes sense.” Well that part made sense, nothing else did, he still was having a rough time accepting that Bill was gone. “If that is the case though, Hera worshippers then I don’t think this would be the first death.”

“No certainly not but not all of them would be the same sort of murder,” Sherlock began walking off.

“Hey hold on! You’ve got to give me more than th-”

“Try reading Lestrade. God knows there’s more than enough material on Hera and the punishments she meted out anywhere you choose to look.”

“He’s right, google it.” John was tracking Sherlock’s retreating back. “Are we quite done now? I have answered your questions.” John didn’t wait for Lestrade’s answer before he started to follow Sherlock, already pulling at the blue coveralls, wanting them off as quickly as possible.

Lestrade’s mouth flattened. There were times he wondered if it was worth it, dealing with those two.

Sherlock hailed another cab and waited for John to catch up. He was already picking apart the best way to solve this case. He needed to make sure first that it was a cult or find out if it was one woman who took worship to homicidal levels.

As always, John was a few scant steps behind Sherlock and he was at the cab before the taller man folded himself into it. “Where to?” He could see Sherlock’s mind working and he wanted to do what he could to aid and help. Also it was better to keep busy, think of this as a case as any other and not think about what it really was, what it really meant. 

“Museum,” Sherlock had his phone out and was texting as the cabbie began to drive.

“Okay.” John left it at that and looked out the window at the London streets passing by. If they were going to a museum then there was a reason for it. Where Sherlock led, John would always follow.

_**~to be continued...~** _


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun._

 **Warning:** _Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually._

**Tales of a Feather.**

**_Chapter Two._ **

Of course the Museum was closed by the time they arrived but that didn’t matter, not when they had an appointment. Sherlock stepped out of the cab and walked toward the entrance. One of the doors was opened by a woman in her fifties wearing a white tunic embroidered with silver irises along the edges, hair swept up and kept braided back, a silver choker with a large garnet centered in the hollow of her throat.

“Sherlock, it’s been some time.”

John stopped in his tracks as he took a good look at the woman. Everything about her was tasteful and understated elegance, it was also quite clear that she was a follower of Hera and right now John had to call on every bit of control to not rush forward and do something he would desperately regret later on. This was not the woman from the pub; John had to keep reminding himself of that fact.

“Martha,” he nodded and stepped into the museum, “There’s been a killing.”

“Of course there has. You’re involved,” she studied John quietly before nodding, “Greek artifacts or something of a more religious nature?”

“The latter I’m afraid. A young man was found shackled to a fire escape, a caduceus carved into his chest, eyes removed, and the shackles were decorated with silver lilies.” Sherlock began tugging his gloves from his hands as Martha locked the door.

“The Tiresias argument.”

“Indeed.”

John followed, amused rather than offended that the two brilliant people in front of him more or less acted like he wasn’t there. It was something he was used to though and at times it had been quite useful to be able to blend in to the background, to stay unnoticed. 

If he remembered correctly Tiresias had been punished by Hera, punished but not killed. He could be wrong though since his bout with the Greek classics and history had been at Uni twenty years ago. Instead of opening his mouth to reveal his ignorance he kept quiet and listened intently instead.

Martha led them back to her office and waved a hand at the comfortable chairs across from her desk before taking town a trio of books, setting them beside her as she perched on the corner of her desk and crossed her legs, she looked at John again, “Neophytes in the worship of Hera are often young women who have experienced violence, abuse, or manipulation at the hands of men. They read about the goddess’ retribution and presume her a goddess of vengeance and blood. Some are open to learning the truth others refuse to. The latter often create or join pockets of the religion where they sacrifice others in ways that symbolize a punishment meted out by Hera.”

“Isn’t that the truth about everything? There are always some people willing to learn the truth and some people who are only interesting in bending it so that it fits their interests. John sat down in one of the offered chairs. “If abuse and pain counted as reasons to be cruel and twisted then most of the population would be excused to commit murders as they pleased. I am all for finding something to hold on to, something to believe in when things get rough but what happened tonight. That is not on, not for any reason.”

“No, indeed not,” She looked over at Sherlock and lifted a brow, “So you want me to sniff around then?”

He nodded.

“I’ll see what I can suss out,” she handed him the books, “I expect those to be returned.”

“Of course.”

“In pristine condition, though you may copy them if you like.”

“Let’s do that, copy them I mean. You know how you get when you get into one of your experiment. My copy of Grey’s Anatomy will never smell the same again.” John turned to Martha. “Thank you for lending us your books and thank you for your assistance in looking into things.” Being polite was never a waste, especially not when it was warranted as it definitely was in this instance. 

She nodded, studying him once more, “Do keep the idiot alive and remember, things change, what might have been true once can become a lie.” She looked at Sherlock and smiled, “Now, get out. I have paperwork to finish.”

Sherlock’s mouth took on an amused smirk and he swept from the office.

“Good evening then.” John gave her a quick smile before once more following Sherlock. “I’ll do my best to keep him safe.” He called over his shoulder before quickening his steps to reach his flatmate. 

Another hailed cab and they were heading back to Baker Street, Sherlock flipping through one of the books. “She likes you,” he turned a page.

“She seems like a nice lady.” John nodded in reply. “How did you meet her? During another case?” He turned away from the window to look at Sherlock. 

He made an agreeing hum, “Stolen Bronze Age urn, she was being framed for the theft. It was the curator’s mistress.”

“Of course it was.” John’s left brow twitched in amusement. He wondered how Sherlock had figured that out, doubtlessly it would have been brilliant. “Sherlock...Thank you, for before I mean, for stopping me from letting my emotions take control.” 

“You’d have been angry with yourself had Lestrade been forced to arrest you or bar us from the investigation,” it was spoken in his normal toneless, absorbing new data voice. “You sulk when you’re angry.”

“I sulk? Really? Well you certainly should know, being the king of sulking.” John’s lips quirked a little. “I would have been angry though so thank you for sparing us the sulk then.” He shook his head and looked out the window again. “I should probably get out at Tesco’s, we’re out of milk and almost everything else come to think of it.”

“Tea as well?” Sherlock could go without groceries for the most part, if he got hungry there was always take away, but tea was a rare essential.

“No, I believe that we are covered on the tea front. No sugar or milk to put in it though.” John answered as he tried his best to think of what they would need to get. He’d gotten his paycheck from the Surgery not too long ago so his figures should still be in the black, hopefully there wouldn’t be a need to yell at the chip and pin machine.

Ah well, he was okay with no milk but the sugar was required, “Then I suppose you do need to stop off.”

“Mmm yes.” John answered dryly, strangely enough feeling comforted that Sherlock behaved as usual, that he didn’t coddle or was afraid to leave John to his own devises. He leaned forward and asked the cabbie to pull into the curb so he could get off. “See you at home then.” John patted his pockets to make sure he had both pocket book and phone before he opened the door and scrambled out of the cab.

Sherlock nodded, leaning out for just a moment, “Pick up some vanilla then if you would John.” He pulled his head back into the cab and shut the door, confident that John would be able to handle a trip to the Tesco.

Nodding that he had understood, John watched the cab roll away before walking the few steps to the store. There were only a few other late night shoppers there and John was quick to get what he needed. As a doctor and even more as a soldier he had learnt how to sort through his thoughts and concentrate only on what he could do at that precise moment. Right now it was getting the shopping done. 

Then he walked home, more aware than usual about the things going on in the shadows but this part of London seemed quiet and calm, John didn’t really know if he was relieved or disappointed by that fact. 

He reached for the keys and unlocked the door to 221B Baker Street, trying to keep quiet if Mrs. Hudson had gone to sleep.

Sherlock heard John enter the flat but didn’t look up from where he was flicking through the resource materials. “Lestrade phoned, you’ll need to go in tomorrow. Apparently they went out through the back door.”

“Bill and the girl?” John shrugged out of his jacked and carried the groceries to the kitchen. “Any camera surveillance?” He started to unpack the bag and put everything away. “I didn’t know what kind of vanilla you wanted do I got you dried vanilla fruits and that paste thing on a jar.”

“Either will work. So far the CCTV cameras were avoided, quite well at that.” He bit off the normal remark about the woman being clever. It would not be appreciated he knew. “She walked out of the alley but she certainly didn’t walk home or take public transportation, she had her own. Had to.”

John clenched his hand into a fist momentarily as he heard what kind of planning this woman had put into this. She had come out specifically to find some poor sod and Bill had turned out to be him. “Then if she had a car, maybe one of the parking lot cameras might have picked her up. Doubtful with how careful she’s been but you never know.”

“Careful...yes she is careful isn’t she?” He pulled out his phone and shot off a rapidfire text to Lestrade. “How much skin was displayed?” He glanced up at John.

“You mean like with her clothes?” John thought back to what the woman had been wearing again. “Not much, the white top was modest, no large cleavage, just showing a bit of collarbone. Three quarter length sleeves, silver bangles on her left wrist. Knee length skirt, either black or dark blue, I’m leaning toward blue, don’t know about stockings, some sort of strappy sandals for shoes. I wasn’t exactly checking her out.”

“Not much area to cover. She would have been wearing stockings if she changed it, easier for her.” His eyes were narrow and flicking side to side rapidly as he thought.

“She had to have kept the shackles somewhere; it is very much possible she kept a change of clothing there too, or just a coat. A long coat and a change of her hair would have made her more difficult to recognize.” John sighed and finished putting the groceries away before flicking on the kettle. 

“It’s more than that,” he got up and began his frenetic movements around the flat, “You said she looked normal, not tense or worried. A woman in a pub in a white shirt, she had to have drawn attention, people would remember her and you saw her up close but she didn’t seem worried about that?”

“She didn’t seem worried at all; in fact she seemed very comfortable and relaxed with everything and everyone around her. Her smile was open and warm. Absolutely nothing about her seemed tense, nervous or concerned in anyway.” John quickly fixed them a cup of tea and placed Sherlock’s in front of him before sinking into his armchair.

“She’s about to commit a murder but she’s not worried about being seen, why?” He picked up his tea and drank, silently appreciating the way John always made it perfectly, “Because there’s nothing to see. When she’s found she won’t look anything like the woman you met, skin will be darker or lighter, hair a different color, possibly a different shape to her facial features though skilled application of makeup can affect a majority of perceptions.”

“Bloody, buggering hell!” John cursed, he knew Sherlock was right but that didn’t make it easier to bare. “You know how it is in pubs, the lighting aren’t exactly top notch to begin with, I’m not even sure I would recognize her in another outfit, change hair or skin and she’ll be virtually a different person.” 

“This won’t be her last kill, likely isn’t her first, and she keeps trophies,” Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed, “His dog tags, they won’t be found until she is, nor will his eyes.”

John’s hands came up to his own neck even though he hadn’t worn his tags in a long time. “Bitch.” It was said calmly and John didn’t raise his voice but it was brimming with venom. 

Sherlock looked at him and spoke softly, “I am...sorry...about your friend John.”

“I...Yeah...Thank you. I’m sorry too, he was a good friend, he really, really was.” John looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes before looking into his teacup again. “I’m glad you’re on this, I know you’ll solve it.” It was spoken with firm confidence.

“Well of course,” that said, he went back to puzzling things out though he remained sharply aware of John and what his emotional state might be.

**oOoOoOo**

They were at St. Barts. Lestrade had arranged to let Sherlock analyze a scraping from the shackles so Molly was of course there, hovering over John a bit like a worried hen. Sherlock didn’t mind. He wasn’t made for comforting or worrying in the usual manner so he’d let Molly, with her odd little gentle wisdom, do it.

John spoke softly with Molly, allowed her to fuss while Sherlock worked. She was such a sweetheart and John didn’t think he could get annoyed with her even if he wanted to. During a sleepless night, John had managed to get his feelings and his temper firmly under control. He was still upset and hurting but it wasn’t taking over. Knowing without a doubt that Sherlock would find Bill’s killer helped a lot and in her own way, Molly helped too. He smiled and gave her a quick hug as she offered to get them coffee asking if he should help but getting a negative reply on that. 

Sherlock didn’t look up from his work, “Stage make up, a few skin cells, useful for DNA I suppose, silver traces, but there’s some sort of fungus as well. I’m running it through the database now.”

“Let’s hope there’s a hit. I don’t think our kitchen has recovered yet from your last fungus experiment.” John sat on one of the high chairs in the lab, fiddling with some of the old case files Lestrade had copied for them, trying to see if any of them had a link or something in common with Bill’s case. 

“That was with a known fungus. I wouldn’t risk an unknown fungus in the flat.” Before John he would have but, as John’s good health was important to him, now he wouldn’t. 

“That’s good.” John’s lips quirked up in a small smile as he reached for another case file from the pile in front of him. “I’m glad you’re keeping yourself safe...Well somewhat safe anyway.”

Molly came in and placed a cup of coffee next to Sherlock’s elbow and one cup in front of John, followed by a soft hand on his shoulder. John gave her a smile too and thanked her for the coffee. 

Sherlock took a sip and continued to study the fungus under the microscope. It was an interesting specimen and not common. It would be one rare in the British Isles as he knew all the common fungi on sight. His phone chimed, alerting him to a text. “John would you get that?”’

John reached over and snagged Sherlock’s phone pressing the screen so he could read the text. “‘Call me. M.’ Looks as if your brother wants to speak to you.”

“Tell him I’m busy.” Sherlock zoomed in closer on the fungus.

“Fine,” John sent the text. “But if I get My-napped for this later I might get very upset with you.”

“One would think after the incident with the Woman Mycroft would have learned the inadvisability of kidnapping you every time he wants to have a conversation.” He looked up as the machine beeped, having found a match. “Hortaea wernekii, hm.”

“Tinea nigra.” John slid the phone back toward Sherlock now that he had sent Mycroft the busy text. “Well if we see a woman with spotty palms then we have a suspect and I don’t think your brother will ever learn. I’ve had the ‘pleasure’ of meeting him several times after the Adler situation and I still don’t have a clue where his office is.”

“I’m not entirely certain Mycroft actually has one. He spends the majority of his time not intimidating mortals at the Diogenes club. As I recall you got him a warning there too.” He smirked knowing that John had been the one to put a smudge on Mycroft’s impeccable record.

“Bloody elitist shite club. I would have hoped he’d have been tossed out but I guess I’ll settle for a warning.” John had a sneaking suspicion the warning had hurt Mycroft more than the black eye John had given him a few days later. 

Sherlock set about putting the sample back into the evidence bag and moderately straightening up. Molly had warned him about leaving a mess after the last time. She’d gotten in trouble and it happened once more he’d be banned from the Bart’s lab. He tucked the evidence jar into his pocket. “Come along then John.”

John grabbed the case files and tucked them into his shoulder bag, gathered the cups he and Sherlock had drunk their coffee in and handed them to Molly with a very apologetic smile. “Thank you Molly. Where are we going Sherlock?” John didn’t really expect Sherlock to answer, especially considering that the man was half way out the door already. 

“Nursery,” it was a short reply and all that he said, his mind already on the next step.

**oOoOoOo**

 

Sherlock bent down and narrowed his eyes at the bag of mixed potting soil and compost looking for the location it was from.

John sincerely hoped that Sherlock would find what he was looking for here. It was the third nursery they’d visited and John could feel his allergies beginning to act up. Of course he wanted to help Sherlock any way he could but his mind wasn’t like Sherlock’s. He didn’t have a clue were a bag of soil came from looking at or smelling it. 

“Can I ‘elp you?” 

Sherlock looked up at the nursery worker and rattled off rapid fire questions about the moisture content and origin of the soils they had.

“Slow down then, what sort of soil you looking for?”

“Soils from humid tropical or sub tropical regions.”

“Oh well you ain’t gonna find none of them ‘ere or at any nursery in London. Soils like that ‘ave to be ordered in special.”

“Where can you place such orders then and where can you pick the soil up once it comes?” John smiled his polite, nice guy smile at the nursery worker. He’d hurried to step in and ask before Sherlock was...Well Sherlock. Hopefully this person could help them but that would only work if they weren’t pissed off and tossed them out. John couldn’t really see why it upset people so much to have the truth told about them but it did.

“Depends on ‘oo you are. A big fancy garden place wot gets a lot of public traffic’ll go through one big supplier constantly, get it delivered right to their doorstep as it were. If you’re a private gardner, you can go online order from any gardnin’ website wot’s got what you want and then pick it up at your local post stop. Risky that though, don’t always get the best quality. The smart ones go to the big gardens and ask for a bag from their next order, it costs them more but it’s bett’r quality.”

Sherlock nodded sharply, mind already on its way out, “Thank you.”

“If you and your bloke ‘ere are after any special flowers for your garden once you got the soil you can come on back, ask for Joe. I’ll get ya a discount, newlyweds are my favorite customers.”

Okay, John had gotten used to the couple references, since Sherlock’s return from the grave he even sort of treasured them but newlyweds? Sherlock was leaning over a bag of soil and John was sneezing into a checkered handkerchief, what on god’s green earth made them look or act like newlyweds? “Thank you Joe, we’ll keep that in mind.” John’s smile was only a tiny bit stiff as he nodded to the worker before sneezing again.

Sherlock had to hide a smile at the inference. It was likely too much to hope for that John would get a clue from it but he did rather always enjoy the mistaken assumption that they were romantically involved. His phone chimed and he checked the screen, brows furrowing, “Lestrade,” he met John’s eyes, “there’s been another one.”

“Already? She’s stepping it up then, or getting more confident that she won’t get caught.” John became thin lipped and troubled. Hated for this woman to have killed someone else, added something to her collection. He didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all and he knew that he would never be able to put Bill to rest even in his mind before this bitch was caught and taken care of. “You have the address?” They stepped out from the nursery to hail a cab.

“Yes,” Sherlock pulled open the cab door and got in, texting Lestrade back. “Another bloody one apparently, he told me to leave my coat with someone not going in. It’s in an office building, top floor.” He gave the cabbie the address.

“Oh joy.” John could only imagine how bloody the crime scene must be if Lestrade even took the time to warn Sherlock to remove his coat. “Wonder if she killed him today or last night and the body was found today. Still an office building, that takes guts. Lots more security, not as easy to get in and out of. She’s definitely stepping her game up.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock worked on his phone until they arrived at the office building. He strode in, left his coat with the receptionist, and headed for the lift that he spotted Sally Donovan standing outside of. A rather pale, ill looking Donovan at that.

“Not sure even you deserve what’s up there.” Her mind wasn’t on insults right now, she had to focus everything she had just to keep her lunch down. “Make sure to cover your noses, it smells like a slaughter house.”

John gave her a curt not, still not liking her behavior but not having the energy to get into it with Sally Donovan. He took the coveralls she handed him, once again getting covered up so they could take the lift to the top floor.

Sherlock stepped into the office, the smell of blood strong in the air, and saw Lestrade, suited up again, and looking grimmer than before.

The DI came over, “Victim this time is a woman, Anne Clark. CEO here. Same shackles but a different MO.”

Sherlock followed Lestrade to the body, his eyes going cold and flat as he took in the woman shackled to her office chair, her neck cut all the way around, vertebrae separated, the only thing connecting her head to her body the long tube of her esophagus. Her head was pulled forward and laid on her desk, her body sitting upright. The killer had left the eyes alone this time but in the victim’s mouth there was a crane’s beak. “Gerana.”

Christ, John had seen the worst mankind could offer, he was intimately acquainted with all the ways people could come up with to hurt each other, to be cruel but this was enough to make even his stomach churn uncomfortably. There was so much blood, like a lake of it, the human body only held about four to five liters of blood in it, John knew that but this looked like so much more. The time it would have taken to sever the head like that, to arrange the body showed that their murderer didn’t fear getting caught, she took her time making it perfect, the way she wanted it. It was sickening.

“Gerana, a woman turned into a crane for not honoring or worshipping Hera. Turned and then eventually killed in her bird body. Wonder what this poor woman did to deserve such a fate.” John looked at the victim; she had probably been quite attractive, now it was hard to tell.

“The shackles are,” John had to stop to clear his throat. “The shackles are custom made, she has to get them from somewhere. Have you sent someone to talk to the different smithies in the area?” He looked at Lestrade questioningly.

“Yeah but none of ‘em make things like this.” Lestrade shook his head and watched Sherlock pace around the body, making his observations. This made him ill. He’d seen more gruesome murders than any civilian did in a lifetime but these were definitely up on the list of the worst. “They said it’s an old-”

“Old technique, old style, two sets for this murder,” he narrowed his eyes and leaned in with his pocket magnifier to peer at the shackle cuff hooked around the chair arm, “Made in Greece.”

“Now how do you know that?” Lestrade narrowed his eyes on Sherlock.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at Lestrade, “Residue on the inside of the cuff, indicative of iron ore native to Greece, it would have been rubbed off or lost under the blood from the cuffs that are around the victims’ wrists but around the chair, it’s still there.”

“Immigrant or tourist then?”

“No, this is someone who lives in London, always has,” Sherlock straightened and looked out the window, “Knows how to avoid the CCTV network, how to get around without being seen, she knows how to be invisible. Probably ordered the shackles off the Internet,” he carefully moved the dead woman’s hair out of the way to show the spot behind her ear where a peacock feather was tattooed, “You’d have better luck talking to the tattooists around town. This is skilled, delicate work. She’ll be known.”

John nodded slowly; he should have thought of the tattoo himself, it was an obvious lead. “How does a woman get through the city unnoticed, carrying shackles, spare clothes and tattooing equipment? There must be some size to her bag. Are the victims drugged? There doesn’t seem to be any defensive wounds, as if they didn’t struggle back as she locked them in the shackles. I understand Bill...Hell he might even have encouraged it if he thought it would lead to play but this woman...Why would she allow herself to be chained up like this without fight?”

Sherlock’s mouth took on the curve it always got when he’d thought of something brilliant, “Ah!” He was already moving out of the office, hands stripping off the gloves before Lestrade could get so much as a word out in question.

“Bloody hell, go after him John and do me a favor? Text me what he comes up with, keep both our arses out of the sling.”

“When am I not chasing after Sherlock Greg? It’s what I do.” John gave the DI a short wave and hurried after his flatmate, almost slipping in the blood on the floor before regaining his balance and moving out of the office where he could get rid of the protective clothes and track Sherlock down just as the taller man entered the lift. This time he didn’t even ask where they were going, just content knowing he would be there to watch Sherlock’s back.

Back at the ground floor Sherlock picked his coat back up and gave the receptionist a sympathetic smile that anyone who knew him would recognize as fake and struck up a conversation, navigating through the morass of human nature to be as grieved as possible, “So did Ms. Clark have a standing meeting with anyone who brought a large case in with them? A professional masseuse or cosmetic salesman?”

The receptionist dabbed at her eyes and nodded, “Every Tuesday but she was an artist. Ms. Clark was having a portrait commissioned. Oh I just don’t see how this could have happened!”

He ignored the sudden flood of waterworks and exchanged a look with John.

Well that explained the large case then, no one would question an artist with an appointment. Also explained how the murderer would have found the newest victim.

John stepped forward, all woolly jumpers and sympathy and handed the receptionist a freshly cleaned and even ironed handkerchief instead of the paper tissues she had been using. “I’m so sorry to ask this at such a time but do you happen to have any contact information for this artist? With a killer like this you can never be too careful.”

She sniffled into the hankie, shaking her head, “No. Ms. Clark made the appointments herself. The artist wouldn’t take calls from anyone not sitting for her.”

Sherlock barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes. Why people insisted on sniveling over the death of someone they hated would forever be a mystery to him. And the receptionist clearly hated the top boss, slight violations of company dress code showed disregard for them but the smart way of dressing showed that she liked and took pride in her job so the disdain was for a higher authority. The complete lack of anything on her expression, or any sort of fumbling or shakes until someone came over and brought up Anne Clark proved that she didn’t actually care about her but wanted to keep up an appearance that she did. 

“Did you ever notice anything about the artist then?” John leaned forward and placed his elbows on the counter. “A bright, pretty girl like you, I bet you see all kind of things down here.” He leaned forward a little closer still. “Between you and me, you look over qualified for this job, deserve better than to stand here and answering phones for other people.” 

Sherlock nearly snarled as the woman perked up a bit, the redness in her cheeks from blushing now rather than the crocodile tears.

“Well she seemed like a nice girl, pretty red hair. Looked Irish, sounded Liverpool. I’d have committed sins that would have me in confession faster than a tick on a dog for her shoes.”

“Her shoes?” Sherlock’s brows knit.

“The Jimmy Choo Crown Pump, just luscious.”

John gave a low whistle, brows going up. “Jimmy Choo? That’s impressive footwear for a starving artist. My sister had to save up for months to get her first pair of those.” Of course it took longer for Harry to save for anything since she drank all her money away but that was unimportant in this conversation. Point was, growing up with a very openly gay sister; John knew his women shoes, probably better than what was really healthy.

“Yes, it is isn’t it?” Sherlock was almost vibrating to get going now but if John could get another useful scrap out of the receptionist he could wait a bit.

“Is there anything else you can think of, anything at all?” John’s fingers were very nearly touching the receptionist’s where her hand rested on the counter. “I mean I get it if there was something you didn’t tell the coppers...Especially not that one.” He gave Donovan a slight nod. “Did your boss do anything out of the ordinary since she met this artist or anything that seemed strange about the artist? Like her bag, did it match the shoes?”

“She didn’t have a bag really, just her equipment case, and that was stainless.” She furrowed her brows, “She was talking on her phone the last time she came in...before today I mean, sounded like gibberish mostly but she sounded angry and snapped into once, telling someone named Ben not to judge her. That’s really all I can think of.”

“That’s more than enough, thank you. As I said before, clearly over qualified. Keep the hankie and keep your chin up sweetheart.” John smiled at her before pulling away. He could feel Sherlock’s urge to get going, the energy from the detective all but making the skin on his neck and back prickle. 

She passed him a card, “Thank you. If you need to, or want to get in touch,” the ‘touch’ was purred out, “give me a call and I’ll be happy to help [i]however[/i] I can.”

Sherlock bristled and actually ground his teeth before shunting the possessive surge away. John wasn’t the sort to accept the blatant offer made by a woman who they’d just interviewed about her boss’s killer. 

John pocketed the card with a smile. “Thank you, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” He had no intention to call the woman in front of him, she was not his type. His type these days seemed to only be tall, lanky and brilliant. Saying goodbye he took Sherlock by his coat sleeve and ushered him out of the building. “So the gibberish on the phone...Greek you think?”

“Or Latin,” he hailed a cab, “No...the receptionist would have recognized Latin, probably Greek. Fake Liverpool accent, just another disguise. Ben...we need to find out who Ben is. Family member most likely.”

“My guess is brother, but that’s probably just because I’ve heard those words a million times from Harry...Not to judge her.” John shrugged. The time when Sherlock had been gone thought dead had left his and Harry’s relationship even more inflamed than before. John doubted things would ever be easy between the two of them. He got into the cab with Sherlock, admiring the way Sherlock could get one to come just by raising his hand, that never worked for John.

“She knows what she’s doing isn’t on so she gets defensive when called on it.” His words could have meant the killer but he was talking about Harry. He’d met the woman a pair of times and found her distasteful. He couldn’t say anything about her addiction to alcohol considering his own addiction to cocaine but he could say plenty about how she treated her brother. He treated Mycroft like an annoyance and a bastard because he was one, playing with his life like he was a chess piece and the number of times he’d been there when Sherlock had needed him were so few they could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

John on the other hand was an exemplary brother. Any time Harry needed him he was there with bells on and Sherlock hated to see the abuse she heaped on John.

John hummed in reply, knowing what Sherlock was really talking about. And no matter how bad Harry was, Mycroft was a thousand times worse. Few things in life had given John such satisfaction as clocking that smug bastard had. 

“But yes, brother is statistically more likely. The shoes are interesting. Jimmy Choo shoes yet the rest of her outfit didn’t catch the receptionist’s attention so not a big label. The Crown pumps cost nearly four hundred thirty pounds, that’s not an impulse purchase.”

“No it certainly isn’t. The question is though, are the shoes the real her or are they another disguise? Did she know wearing those shoes would catch the attention of the women working at that office and that it would keep them from looking too closely at the rest of her?” Maybe John was reading too much into things but what could he say...Sherlock had rubbed off on him.

“Good questions. Those sorts of shoes always catch attention and this woman is smart, she’d know that. Elements of truth,” he mused softly.

“All lies work better when they have some truth to them.” John looked out the window again. He wondered about Lyssa, not that, that would be her real name. What drove her? What made her decide who to target and what made her think she had the right to choose who lived and died? 

“Indeed, she wears expensive shoes other women will notice with bargain brand clothes,” his brows knit, “In the pub did you notice how well her clothes fit her?”

He thought about it. “Not really, I mean...Looking too closely at your mate’s girl is not on you know. They looked to fit well, definitely not tailor made but not ill fitting in any way. Loose top and tighter skirt. No Jimmy Choo’s on her feet then, normal strappy sandals, no brand.”

“Still blending. Why not wear no brand shoes coming to the office building?” 

“Because she knows the women working there, knows how their minds work, what gets their focus?” It was said as a question since John had no idea what made their killer tick. “She’s smart.” Smart enough to gain Sherlock’s interest.

“But why get their focus when going unnoticed is better?” He began to smile, “Oh she’s known, she’s well known. Clark wouldn’t have gone for just any portrait artist. I don’t think she really looks Irish but she got in as it to Clark so it’s expected for her to go in disguise but something other than the case has to identify her, hence the shoes.”

“Wait, what? So Clark knew she would come disguised? Is that what you’re saying? Because she’s well known? Well known just in the art circuit or well known as society well known? Old family and the works?” John didn’t really get it, he didn’t but Sherlock did and that was what was important. “It all seem needlessly complicated to me but then again I am not a crazed killer...Well not crazed anyway.”

“You’re not a killer either John. Having killed doesn’t make you a killer. You’d have to have enjoyed it to be a killer.”

“I don’t regret it, that’s just as bad. It’s not about not enjoying it, it’s about not doing it in the first place. I don’t have that switch, the non killer one. And I’m okay with that, perfectly fine even.”

“You are not a killer. You are a soldier, just because you were sent back to civilian life doesn’t mean you stop being a soldier. I catch the killers, you catch them with me, don’t ever say you’re one of them,” it was spoken in an intense way. He never wanted John to believe he was a killer, never. Once he’d thought for a split second that might be the case, in a darkened pool years ago, and it could have cost him everything.

John looked over at Sherlock, baffled by the other man’s intensity. “Sherlock...I will always catch the killers right alongside you. That’s not even brought into question.” John quieted before he continued talking, letting something slip that should definitely never be said.

“I know,” he spoke softly, “I’m afraid you wouldn’t get very far if you tried to leave. But still, never compare yourself to the people we hunt John. I once told you that heroes don’t exist but you’ve proven me wrong multiple times. [i]You[/i] are a hero, and you don’t even see it.”

Sherlock was wrong; John was not a hero, not in any sense of the word. He was an ordinary man, with many, many flaws. Still his throat constricted and his heart pounded painfully in his chest, hearing Sherlock say those words. “Careful there Sherlock, heroes fall. I’m just a man; I do my best to be a good man but still just a man.” 

“You’re not just a good one; you’re the best man I know.”

John’s ears turned red again, blimey, he had no idea what to say to that. “Ah well...The feeling is mutual. You are a [i]good[/i] man Sherlock, I believe in you...Always will.”

“Oi lovebirds! You’re here,” the cabbie’s voice interrupted what Sherlock would have said, and prompted a glare from Sherlock that could have pierced through steel.

John honestly felt like pulling his browning from the back of his denims and shoot the cabbie right in his moon-pie face. It would be the first cabbie he shot after all. Instead he sighed and slid out of the cab after Sherlock, looking around, trying to figure out just where they were.

It was a shop a few blocks away from Baker Street, well within walking distance. Sherlock looked over at John, “Tattooist, not commonly trafficked because he refuses to do walk-ins.”

Nodding his understanding, John followed Sherlock inside. It was a small shop, the walls covered in photos and tattoo designs. Everything looked clean though and there was a strong smell of antiseptic in the air. 

A middle aged man looked up and let his gaze sweep over them. “Don’t do matching tattoos for couples and I’m booked solid for the next month, maybe you should try the galleria a few blocks away.”

“As much as I will surely lament that fact, we’re not here for tattoos Leighton,” Sherlock pulled his phone out and brought up the picture of the tiny peacock feather tattoo, “Need your expert eye.” Though the thought of them being marked as each others to the rest of the world was certainly a pleasant thought.

Leighton took the phone and angled it so he got a proper look at the feather. “Sorry, didn’t recognize you there Sherlock, you’ve let your hair grow out.” The tattoo artist didn’t sound very apologetic though. “Hm, this is really nice work, not many artists out there can get the details this sharp, especially while tattooing on the go. This is Antigone’s work, would recognize it anywhere. Antigone’s an underground artist, no shop, no set address. Lots and lots of people want to claim to have a tattoo by Antigone but very few actually has one. Antigone chooses you, not the other way around.”

“Antigone,” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “Interesting choice of name for herself.” He took his phone back, “You heard about the murder of the military man in an alley near the Cock in Splendor?”

John not really feeling up to talk about Bill’s fate right now, perused the photos on the wall, looking at all the different tattoos portrayed there. Some were absolutely beautiful and some looked like absolute shite. He shook his head in horrified amusement at some of the worse ones.

Leighton, looked up from the sketch he was making. “Heard about it yes, who hasn’t? Gruesome business that.”

“This Antigone is the killer and there’s already been a second murder, more gruesome than the first. She’s working fast so if you have any idea on how someone might run into her it would be very helpful.” Sherlock was aware of John turning away at the mention of his friend’s murder and he half wanted to bundle him out and away from this all.

“Not sure I can be of much help there mate.” Leighton, put the pencil down. “All I’ve heard is that there’s this wall...down in the old underground tunnels in East London. Supposedly you write down your favorite quote or character from the Greek myths and Antigone will judge if you’re worthy. If you are then she’ll find you. Still rumors spread, this could all be bullshit and she’s ensconced in some posh office somewhere.” He shrugged. “It is all too much cloak and dagger for my tastes.”

“Some data is better than no data. If you hear anything else text me, or if you’d rather deal with a yarder, contact DI Lestrade. He’s not quite so annoying as the rest.” He tucked his phone away, nodded a farewell to Leighton, then walked out of the shop.

“See anything you like?” Leighton, nodded toward his wall.

“Some things but I like them better on the wall than I would on my skin. I’m content with what I have.” John nodded his goodbyes to the tattoo artist and followed Sherlock outside.

Sherlock glanced over at him as they fell into step together, “Antigone, very interesting choice of alias. Daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta, a princess. More and more likely she’s from some form of high society but not precisely accepted into it. Antigone, Lyssa, both outcasts of a sort.”

“Both outcasts yes and both strong women, women going their own way in a time when women didn’t have many options.” John put his hands in the pockets of his jacket as they walked. “She obviously identifies herself with them...I obviously think she’s full of shit.”

“Well of course she is,” it was casual, “She finds targets based on a random opinion, her own but random. A woman is a successful CEO wanting to have her portrait painted is considered too vain and arrogant and a man flattering her in a pub becomes someone insisting that women get more pleasure out of sex than men. She’s obviously delusional and quite pathetic.”

“Agreed but let’s not forget dangerous. There is nothing reasonable about her choices and her judgements. That makes her dangerous.” John stepped around a puddle of something very suspicious looking on the sidewalk as he thought about the woman they were chasing. “From what your friend at the tattoo shop said, about that wall in the Underground...She seem to think very highly of herself.”

“Well she would wouldn’t she? She is skilled, comes from a privileged background, likely spoiled, used to picking and choosing what, when, where, and who she deals with and how, clever enough to remain invisible and disguised, and probably praised by people every day of her life even as those same people snigger and sneer behind their backs at her.”

John was silent for a while. “Sounds a lot like your brother actually, well you can exchange the sniggers and sneers for curses and frowns but still, two peas in a pod.” 

“The difference is Mycroft actually has power, for all that he pretends to the contrary,” they reached 221b and he opened the door, “This woman doesn’t, she has no recourse, no way of stopping the sneers easily so they matter to her. Each and every slight matters to her and festers until it explodes and- oh God what are you doing here?” He glared at Mycroft, sitting in John’s chair in the flat.

Mycroft leaned forward to sip his tea that Mrs. Hudson had obviously made for him since it was served in her flowery tea set. “Just dropping by to check on my dear little brother, it’s been a while since you were in touch.” Mycroft smiled, or at least the corners of his mouth twitched minutely upwards.

John sighed and went to hang up his jacket and Sherlock’s coat. He’d let Sherlock deal with Mycroft, otherwise he might be tempted to clock the man again and none of them needed that to happen.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and moved to the window stand where his violin sat, “Busy, before and now. What do you want, Mycroft?” He plucked at the strings of his instrument and stared at his brother. “You don’t ‘drop by’ without a reason.”

Mycroft stared back, completely unfazed by his younger brother’s glare. “You know I worry. And now with this ghastly business with dear John’s friend I thought I should look in on the two of you. See that all is well.” He took another sip before placing the teacup back on its saucer silently. 

The complete lack of belief in Sherlock’s gaze could almost be physically felt, “Always late to the party Mycroft? I have no intention of saving you any cake,” it was both a dig at his brother’s diet and his way of telling Mycroft that if there was something about this case that involved national security or international diplomacy then he wouldn’t care and would indeed toss whoever got in the way of justice for John’s friend off a cliff.

“Oh dear, so hostile Sherlock. And here I brought a party gift and everything.” Mycroft reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a USB stick. “It seems my cameras picked up something interesting or rather someone interesting leaving an office building early this morning.”

Sherlock flicked a glance at the memory stick then back to Mycroft’s face, “Of decent quality?”

Mycroft just looked at him. “It’s from my cameras Sherlock, of course it is decent.” He placed the offered memory stick on the table and reached for the teacup again. “So how is John? It seems he is still cross with me.” 

Sherlock saw something, just the smallest flicker that had his brows lifting in surprise. John’s opinion [i]mattered[/i] to Mycroft. “Why?” It was a soft spoken question.

“He is good for you Sherlock, what other reason do I need?” Mycroft put the empty teacup on the table. 

He put the pieces together rapidly and shook his head, “It won’t happen Mycroft. Even if John loses the intense desire to punch you every time he sees you and were to, for some ungodly reason, begin singing your praises to me,” he paused to smirk over that unlikely image in his head, “it wouldn’t happen. Because I know what is at the top of your priorities.”

“The pieces lay where they fall.” Mycroft sounded slightly regretful. “That is precisely why John Watson is good for you.” He rose from his seat and grabbed the handle of his ever present umbrella. “Enjoy the party favor, give my regards to your hiding flatmate and for god’s sake...Call Mummy.”

Sherlock waited until he was almost out the door, “Mycroft, you will never hear this from me again however,” he paused and leaned forward to pick up the USB stick, “thank you for this. Because of John,” because it would help him get justice for John’s friend, “thank you.”

Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks, back ramrod straight. “You’re welcome.” He didn’t turn around and he didn’t say anything else, just stood there for a while before continuing walking, his steps fading as he walked down the stairs.

_**~to be continued...~** _


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun._

 **Warning:** _Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually._

**Tales of a Feather.**

**_Chapter Two._ **

Sherlock waited until he was sure his brother was out of the flat and inside one of his shiny, black cars before he got up and got his lap top, powering it on to begin reviewing the footage and yelling out as he did, “He’s left, John!” 

There was a slight rustling coming from upstairs and the door to John’s bedroom opened and closed before John’s steps sounded on the stairs as he came down. “Sorry for abandoning you there, just seemed like the safest approach for all of us.” He looked a bit sheepish, scratching the back of his neck.

“It was. If you clock him again you might actually be arrested by his minions,” he wagged the memory stick in the air before plugging it in, “His cameras caught her leaving the office building.”

“Really? Well if anyone was to catch her on tape it was him.” John walked closer, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder at the laptop. “He just gave it to you? Just like that?” That didn’t sound like Mycroft Holmes at all. “What sort of case does he need you to solve this time?”

“He didn’t leave one,” he raised his brows when he saw several still shots as well as the video image of her. “Hmmm,” he zoomed in on a still peering at it closely.

John leaned further over Sherlock’s shoulder, looking at the face of the woman who’d killed one of his best friends. If he hadn’t known better he would never have thought it to be the same woman. Red hair, peaches and cream skin. “She’s good with makeup, have to give her that.”

“Very good but no one is perfect,” he pointed at her lash line, “Olive skin tone, that’s the natural, you can also tell by her nail beds, she didn’t wear polish. Bad idea to have a manicure when doing so much with your hands, it would chip and flake off, too much unwanted trace. And here,” his finger pointed out a run in her stocking, “Just as I thought she doesn’t apply makeup to her legs.” He clicked on the video and watched it carefully, “Prosthetics, to her nose, cheeks, and chin. They don’t move when she changes expression, looking around with a busy frown but the nose doesn’t wrinkle, the cheeks don’t crease.”

“I don’t get it, I really don’t Sherlock. It seems like so much work, I mean it must take hours applying prosthetics and make up and different kinds all the time just to find new victims.” John shook his head, trying to clear it. “Anyway olive skin tone, talks a different language, perhaps Greek on her phone. Are we looking for someone with Greek roots?”

“Yes.” He tapped the screen where her phone was visible, “The font is the Greek alphabet, she’s got Greek blood in her veins and she’s proud of it, too proud. Greeks take pride in their heritage no question but this,” he shook his head, “go far beyond that. She’s a philhellene with recent Grecian ancestors. She’s compensating.”

“Oh I think she’s way past compensating and into insanity and obsession.” His blue eyes narrowed as he looked closer, almost breathing in Sherlock’s hair before pulling back a little. “Look there on her wrist as she holds her phone, is that just a smudge or is there a tattoo underneath the make up?” 

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed it out, “oh well spotted John. Yes it’s a tattoo.” He went back to the stills, “A bird, probably a peacock but all you can see is the basic shape here. We’ll be making a short jaunt out tonight to this wall.”

“If she has it monitored in any way, she might recognize me. It could scare her off.” John wanted to go, since Sherlock’s return he wanted to go everywhere with him but John had to think about what was best for the case too, what was best for Bill. He owed his friend that much. 

Sherlock turned to give him a smirk, “Well she’s not the only master of disguise in London now is she?” He got up and pulled John into his bedroom, sliding a case out from under the bed before studying John carefully, “Hm, sharper cheekbones, pointier chin, contacts, and platinum hair I think, no one would recognize you.” He began digging the supplies out from the case.

“No, I don’t think anyone will recognize me after you’ve worked me over.” And that was terribly inappropriate...What the hell was he saying. Idiot Watson. John wanted to kick himself. “I mean, worked your magic...Fuck, made me up.” Giving it up as a lost cause, John sighed and sat down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed.

“Mmm,” Sherlock set the materials for the transformation on his bedside table then went to pick out clothes. He preferred John’s natural style but they’d need something that looks a bit more casually posh. He pulled out khaki slacks and a light pink polo shirt, tossing them to John, “Put those on.” He knew they’d fit, he’d bought them in John’s size after all. He picked out some argyle socks and loafers, an expensive gold watch, and a bluetooth earpiece. But the time he was done John would look like a right tosser.

“Right.” John took the clothes with trepidation, they were so not his usual style but that was the point he supposed. “I’m not even going to ask why you have clothes like this in my size.” He pulled his striped jumper over his head and flatted his hair down where it stood straight up. After the jumper went his checkered shirt until he was in his white plain t-shirt. “Is it alright if I keep the t-shirt, underneath this pink thing?”

“No. The buttons on the polo will be undone, the t-shirt can’t be seen in the gap or it’ll throw off the image we want to make. Anyone glancing at you should see an insufferably arrogant trust-fund twat whose confidence comes from knowing that Daddy will get him out of any trouble.” Sherlock smirked, “You won’t have to move differently or speak differently, you and I both know you’re confident because of what you’ve lived through, the way you normally dress gives just that same impression as well as your face.”

John wrinkled his nose a little at the thought of walking around with an unbuttoned pink polo with no shirt underneath it. He was going to look beyond ridiculous, he wasn’t exactly a troll but he wasn’t prince charming either. Oh well, he wanted to come so this was the price to pay. With another sigh he reached for the hem of his t-shirt to pull it off and don the offending shirt.

Sherlock froze at the sight of John bare torso. He knew, of course, that John was fit, and that he maintained the musculature gained in the army, but seeing it in front of him without a shirt concealing it was entirely different from knowing. John was more than just fit, he was Michelangelo’s David made flesh and the scar riding high on his left shoulder made him all the more real and made Sherlock’s mouth go dry at that proof of reality.

It wasn’t until he had the polo shirt half on, hiding his arms and head, that John realized he had never been so bare in front of Sherlock before, even after living together for so long John always made sure to cover up. He wondered why that was; living in close quarters with other men was something he was very used to. In the army you lost your modesty very quickly. John hurried to pull the polo shirt down all the way and he straightened the collar of it. Deep down he must have been aware of his attraction to Sherlock from day one...That was the only reason John could think of why he felt so awkward.

Sherlock began speaking, “Tucktheshirtin,” he cleared his throat and turned so John wouldn’t see the embarrassment written on his face at the unintelligible babble. He’d not done something like that since the time The Woman looked at him after she mentioned liking detectives and calling brainy the new sexy. He set about organizing the makeup and prosthetics he’d chosen to disguise John and tried again, “Remember to tuck the shirt into the trousers.”

Once again, John did his best to smooth his hair down as he looked curiously at Sherlock. “I will, I just have to get the trousers on first.” He thought about taking the khakis and walk into the bathroom to change but after just changing his shirt here that would look ridiculous, not to mention it would definitely show Sherlock something that John wasn’t ready to let him know. He reached for his gun and pulled it out from where it was stuck down the back of his denims and laid it on the bed before undoing his belt buckle and fly. John hurriedly shimmied out of his jeans and reached for the other pair of trousers.

Sherlock’s mouth went dry when he couldn’t help but glance at John’s mostly uncovered lower half and he managed not to groan only by sheer force of will, especially when John bent over just a bit to grab the khakis. This was not good for maintaining his unaffected facade, especially since he felt his body react. He immediately set about mixing the right colors together to match John’s skin color while mentally reciting the periodic table, the statistics of domestic murders, and the chemical formula for tourmaline all at the same time. “When we do catch her, what do you want to do?” 

He needed to know if John still wanted to deal with this killer personally or not so he could plan the apprehension accordingly.

Buttoning the new trousers, after having made sure that the shirt was tucked in according to Sherlock’s wishes, John sat down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “I [i]want[i/] to kill her but it would be best to have Lestrade on standby I think. Bill would have kicked my arse if I went on a vigilante killing spree.” They were so close right now, if he wanted to John could reach out, place his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and pull him close for a kiss. Of course he wanted to but that would be the worst idea in the world. John couldn’t lose Sherlock, not again.

Sherlock studied his flatmate and nodded, “Lestrade it shall be then.” He whipped a protective cover around John’s shoulders so as not to get anything on his clothes then used an astringent to clean the natural oils off John’s face; the spirit gum would hold the prosthetics on better that way. It was interesting, so thoroughly touching a face he knew so well that he could bring it to mind with such sharp clarity that it was like John was [i]there[/i], even when he’d gone to the store or was at the surgery. Taking the first prosthetic, he spread spirit gum over its surface and carefully, carefully applied it to give John a more pointed chin. His fingers held it in place for the time it took to properly affix, keeping the edges smooth, almost cupping John’s jaw as he did.

John stayed as still as he could so that Sherlock could apply the prosthetics and make up without trouble. Honestly he almost had trouble breathing. Sherlock’s fingers were warm and steady on his face and John had to stop himself from leaning into the touch. He tried desperately to think of something to talk about, so that he wouldn’t just sit and stare at Sherlock’s face. “Have you figured out what you will write on the wall? Something that will gain her interest?”

“Possibly, can’t be sure until I see the wall,” Sherlock delicately applied the other prosthetics, “Hopefully she will be watching the wall tonight.” Because otherwise someone would be dying tonight and while Sherlock didn’t care the way John did about the possibility of people dying, it did revolt him on a level beyond the insult to his deductive skills. He began applying the make up to John’s face, just what was needed to cover the prosthetics, blending in to the natural skin tone and give the illusion of even deeper hollows below the cheeks.

“I think she will watch, she’s gotten a taste for it now...Killing I mean.” John knew that she could just as well be out in a pub or club and find her newest victim there but he had to hope they would catch her. His face felt a little weird with its new additions and John had to keep from reaching up and poke at it. “She’s gotten away with at least two murders now, now that she knows she can do it, she’ll want more.”

“Yes,” it was simply stated as Sherlock finished applying the makeup then picked up a wig. Technically they could have bleached John’s hair but Sherlock didn’t want that. He liked John’s natural hair exactly the way it was, dark blond bordering on brown, and for him to be platinum permanently would just be...wrong. 

John stayed still until Sherlock gave him the go ahead to move. He walked over so that he could look into a mirror, John didn’t recognize the man looking back at him. “I can’t do anything but applaud your work Sherlock but Christ I look like a twat, I look like one of those cheesy stock broker types...Makes me want to kick my own arse for being such a buggering git.”

Sherlock smiled, one of the smiles he reserved just for John, “That would be the point and, as this disguise is tailored to draw enmity,” he handed John a police man’s clutch piece with an ankle holster, “We can hardly have you walk into a battlefield unarmed. The trousers will keep it from being noticed.”

“Thank you.” John put his foot up on a chair and pulled up his trouser leg to fit the ankle holster there. “Please don’t tell me you lifted this too from Greg when he was being annoying.” He grinned at his best friend.

“Very well,” he set about putting the supplies away, “I won’t tell you.”

John burst out chuckling, the first real, true laughter since he’d found out about Bill. “Good, I don’t even want to think about how you managed to get a hold of it without him noticing.”

He could have told John just how careless Lestrade was when drunk and how the Detective Inspector was also pathetic when pining away for someone but he didn’t. Both because it was one of those rare things he understood the reason for being kept a secret and because he was simply too caught up in John’s laughter for a moment. Sherlock checked the time, “Well we’ve two hours until sunset, hungry?”

Still chuckling slightly, John rolled his trouser leg back down. “I could eat, only if you do as well though. No, not eating while on a case crap...You are still much too thin.” John had made it his personal mission to make sure Sherlock was healthy and well fed after his come back from the dead.

“I’ve told you, it’s just transport,” he didn’t argue, didn’t say he wouldn’t eat though. He ate more since his return because he understood, he knew that to John it was a sign of him being alive, of making an effort to [i]stay[/i] alive, and John needed that. “Angelos?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” John nodded. Angelo was still adoring of Sherlock and even after all this time a candle somehow always ended up on their table. “Think Angelo will recognize me?”

“Likely not, it should be a good test of the disguise.” He strode out of the room and went to the door where his coat hung. John’s step following him giving him that ever-present sense of contentment. John’s presence always meant good things even when the world around them exploded.

**oOoOoOo**

 

Sherlock positively pouted as he and John walked to the wall he’d gotten the location of from one of his homeless network and John laughed his disguised arse off, “I don’t see why you find it so funny.”

“But it is funny, it is bloody hilarious even.” John was still laughing.”I’ve never seen that expression on Angelo’s face before. Even his beard looked disapproving.” Angelo had glared at Sherlock and John all evening, and no candle arrived on their table. 

“It was a unique experience,” and one he did not like. He was used to Angelo being warm and friendly, to have the man’s considerable disapproval leveled on him was uncomfortable. Certainly an odd feeling. “I have to wonder what will happen the next time we go.”

“I look forward to finding out.” John grinned and nudged Sherlock with his elbow. He’d found it extremely amusing to have witnessed Angelo being so put out over Sherlock ‘cheating’ on his hard working doctor. At least it proved that the disguise worked. 

“Perhaps we should visit Lestrade at a petty crime scene, would he think I’m cheating on you as well? Interesting data.” Sherlock flicked his pocket torch on as they entered a lowly lit area.

“I don’t think that Greg would care either way but I’m for going, see if he can see through the disguise. Maybe we could have some fun with Anderson or Donovan.” John’s grin widened at that thought. He stayed close to Sherlock and kept an eye open where he put his feet, the last thing he wanted was to fall down and break a leg. 

Sherlock’s lips curved into a smirk, “Oh yes. It would be interesting indeed, especially if you happen to seem to make a deduction about how Sally’s been staying over at Anderson’s for the last five days. His wife is in Hong Kong.”

“Poor wife, though she must suffer from some sort of mental ailment for marrying Anderson in the first place.” John would gladly tear down Sally and Anderson with Sherlock’s deductions without a second thought. He had no sympathy for liars and cheaters. Especially not rude obnoxious ones like those two. 

He exchanged a wicked smile with John for that comment and then they were at the wall. It was covered in names of Greek mythology figures, some even had drawings beside them, and he hummed as he inspected it. There were three repeating myths that had been touched, smudged, each time. Obviously favorites of the one who regularly inspected the wall, a small hand. The raising of Hera by the Horai, the seduction of Zeus to aide the Greeks in the Trojan War, and the tale of Argos, the thousand eyed guard. “Hmm,” he pulled out the white paint marker and quickly wrote down the legend of Argos, including a simple drawing of a peacock beside it.

John watched the wall closely, looking at both Sherlock’s and other people’s legends drawings and words. This place gave him the creeps, art and history, he liked both but not like this. Not as offerings to some crazy bird too much of a coward to even show her real face. It made his stomach churn. “What now? Should wait to see what happens or just leave?”

“Leave, no point in waiting around. Shall w-” he broke off and looked down when his phone chimed a text alert. Fishing it out of his pocket he opened the message.

New crime scene. Worst yet. More than one. You might want to leave John behind. Mycroft here as well.- Lestrade

“What does it say?” John noticed the shift in Sherlock’s mood instantly. He knew that the text hadn’t contained good news. 

Sherlock showed it to him, “Very not good.” Especially as Mycroft was on scene.

“Fuck! What on earth is Mycroft there for? And you are not leaving me behind, not happening.” John good mood slid a way, leaving his face lined underneath the make up and jaw clenched once more. 

“Of course not,” he was already moving, texting Lestrade back and also texting Mycroft demanding to know why in the hell he was at the crime scene.

Colleague, matter of National Security.-M

It’s bad.-M

John saw the emotions fly across Sherlock’s face and knew this would be so not good. He wasn’t some delicate thing though that needed to be protected from the evils of the world and he was glad that at least Sherlock realized that.

Sherlock felt cold. When [i]Mycroft[/i] called something bad then it was so far beyond that as to be sickening. He shot a short reply telling his brother not to be too much of an arse to Lestrade then put his phone away as a non-descript black car rolled up, obviously one of Mycroft’s fleet of minions. He got in, his face a study in neutrality even as his mind picked apart what they would find at the crime scene.

_**~to be continued...~** _


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun._

 **Warning:** _Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually._

**Tales of a Feather.**

**_Chapter Four._ **

Sherlock, for the first time in their acquaintance, felt sorry for Sally Donovan. The Sergeant was actually shaking at her post, her pallor and the slight residue at the corner of her mouth indicating she’d vomited. 

Sally just waved them along, not even noticing that John did not look like John at the moment. She couldn’t get the image of what was inside that house out of her mind. For once she was glad to have been put on guard dog duty by the police tape. 

John looked around the manor as they walked inside, the place was huge. He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that there were people who actually lived like this. He didn’t envy them though, especially since you only had to step a foot on the grounds to realize that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong here. 

Sherlock found Lestrade and Mycroft glaring at each other outside what was likely a small storage room and he noticed that Lestrade wasn’t wearing the blue anti-contamination suit, just the foot slip covers. Not very bloody then. He also took just a moment to wonder how his brother could honestly miss the fact that Lestrade was only glaring at him so fiercely to mask the desire to simply walk into him and lean. “Lestrade, victim?”

Greg turned his head to answer and frowned at the bright blond haired man behind Sherlock for just a moment, “Fucking hell is that you John?”

“What would you do if I said that it wasn’t?” John replied but the humor was fleeting, this was not the place for jokes. “It seems that our killer was busy while we were out trying to bait her. But to repeat Sherlock’s question, what can you tell us about the victim Greg?”

“Victims, plural.” Mycroft twirled the umbrella handle in his grip, otherwise standing as straight and calm as usual. “Brilliant really, horrid of course but really quite brilliant.” He looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes. “Hercules.”

Greg saw, for the first time since he’d known him, Sherlock’s mask fall and the brief horror that crept into his expression and eyes before he regained control of himself and blanked it out, going so cold Lestrade would swear the temperature actually dropped.

“How old Lestrade?” 

He didn’t bother to ask how Sherlock knew, even with Mycroft’s comment there were several other multiple deaths it could be but of course Sherlock had already hit on the right one, “Six, four, and two. The mother’s twenty-eight, Jessamina Brix. Anderson’s still in taking photographs.”

Sherlock was setting his coat aside and slipping on the foot covers but he nodded in acknowledgement.

John stayed quiet, in fact he didn’t know if he’d be able to speak even if he tried, his insides had frozen solid. How could anyone do this? The children couldn’t have been guilty of anything; even this killer bitch must know that. Fuck, fuck it all. If he had been Sherlock he would have seen her for what she was at that first meeting. How many lives could have been saved then? John’s shoulders drooped and he felt his leg start to ache as he went for the foot covers.

Mycroft watched the doctor get ready and follow Sherlock, taking a few steps closer to Lestrade. “This is exactly why my brother should have found an excuse to leave Watson at home.”

The DI shook his head, shifting to avoid even an accidental brush against him, “John would never let him do that. They’re always at every crime scene together, always. John refuses to let Sherlock work a case alone anymore. You know why.” He then turned and headed back into the room. He still didn’t know why he had to find Sherlock’s brother so attractive and why he actually seemed to like the damned bastard but this was one case when Mycroft Holmes’ presence was more of a nuisance than a pleasant surprise. He looked at the carnage of the three little broken bodies and their mother and knew that once this case was over he was going to get completely pissed just to get this out of his head.

“I do know why, that does not make it healthy. Being here will do nothing but hurt John.” Mycroft gave DI Lestrade his version of a curious gaze, wondering why the detective always seemed so distant in his presence. As far as he knew Mycroft had not interfered in Lestrade’s life or career, well not too much anyway.

Sherlock reached over before putting gloves on and gripped John’s arm. He knew exactly what he was thinking so he only said one word softly, “Wrong.”

“No, not wrong, not this time. I’ll be alright though.” John tried his best to sound sure of himself but even he could hear how phony it sounded. The sight of the broken, tiny bodies broke his heart. Children should never be that still, even in sleep children moved and fussed and breathed. This was so wrong on every level and it really, truly broke his heart. 

Sherlock resolved to discuss it with John once they were back at Baker Street. He scanned the scene, aware of Anderson, still snapping the photographs despite his paler than usual face, giving him a nasty look. He didn’t care, what mattered was the work now. He knelt beside the first body, the mother, her features frozen in horror, arms splayed wide, manicured nails torn and bloody, neck at an unnatural angle. “Snapped her neck but she fought before he did.”

“He?” Lestrade looked at Sherlock.

“He. Where’s the father’s body?” He looked up at Lestrade.

“Out on the back lawn, burnt.”

“Degraded then, but you’ll probably find traces of some sort of drug in his system, likely PCP,” he nodded at the door, “Door was barred from the outside, all five were locked in. He was dosed,” Sherlock got up and pulled the door half closed to reveal small streaks of blood, “beat on the door trying to get out when the drugs started affecting him, until he lost all reason. Then he turned to his family.” He walked back over to the mother, “The mother first, put her children behind her, wedged themselves into a corner, tried to look small, unnoticeable,” he turned, his nitrile gloves touching the wall, himself facing outward, “she dug in, her nails scratching the wall at the first push. Then she fought, tried to keep him back, probably clawed at his face but it would have been like a bee stinging an angry bull. He hit her, snapped her neck. Then went for the children.”

Sherlock moved to the eldest child, a boy, a little off to the left from the mother’s side, “They ran, he tried to hold his father’s legs,” he gestured at the smears of blood on the carpet, “give his little brother and sister time to get out. He was shaken loose, kicked off, then kicked and stamped until something happened to draw the father’s attention to the other two,” he moved to the final two children, a four year old boy with his little broken arms still around his baby sister, hunched over her, “The baby, probably, cried when the door wouldn’t open and the boy saw his father come for them and wrapped himself around her as well as he could, holding on to try and protect her. Fists this time,” his nitrile covered fingers ghosted over the bloody marks on the boy’s back, “The baby probably screaming herself hoarse, and the father kept hitting until she stopped. One blow after the boy had gone limp and couldn’t protect her head anymore,” there was a slight caved in spot on the side of the baby’s head, “and her skull would have been crushed.”

“Christ are you even human?” Anderson glared at Sherlock.

“Shut it Anderson.” John’s voice was sharp as a whip. He felt sick to his stomach and most of all he would just like to fall down on his knees and cry but he wouldn’t stand for this. “In order to catch the person responsible for this happening we need to know what happened. Sherlock just told us that. Which is more than I suspect you would be able to do. You take your little pictures and pretend you know what’s happening but you don’t have a clue. Too caught up in yourself to care. Med-school dropout. Cheating husband and lousy forensic...How does it feel to be human?”

Anderson turned red, “Why don’t you tell me Doctor? You follow him,” he jerked his head at Sherlock, “around like a faithful little dog when he wouldn’t care if you were gunned down in front of hi-”

“Anderson!” Lestrade barked it out, “That’s enough. If you can’t control yourself you can walk off the scene and go home. Same for you John,” he met the doctor’s eyes. “This is ugly so we all need to stay calm.”

Anderson shut his mouth with a snap and went back to photographing the evidence and scene.

“When your people start treating Sherlock with even basic respect, then I will be as calm as a cucumber.” John met Lestrade’s eyes. “ _You_ call on him...you know what happened when you let your dogs off the leash and still they keep doing it. You keep your people under control Detective Inspector and I will keep myself under control.”

“John,” Sherlock stood up and shook his head, “Anderson’s welcome to his opinions, they are always wrong after all.”

Greg shot Anderson a look when he made a noise as if to begin saying something. “Look can we just table our personal messes before Sherlock’s brother decides to send in his own merry men? What else you got?” He looked at Sherlock this time.

He pointed at drag marks in the carpet, “The father was probably dead from an overdose when she unblocked the door and came to get him out. The back lawn you said?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock nodded sharply and stepped out of the room, ignoring Mycroft as he walked to a back door.

Mycroft’s only reaction was the slightest raise of an eyebrow, after all he knew his little brother. 

John glared at Anderson and then sent an even more scathing glare in Mycroft’s direction before following Sherlock outside. He might be Sherlock’s dog, his pet, he’d heard all of it before, it really didn’t bother him. If anyone had a problem with it they would learn that this dog’s bite was definitely worse than his bark.

Sherlock walked slowly around the still steaming, half charred body tied to a stake, “Hm that’s a deviation from Grecian themes.”

“What is?” The smell of burnt, charred flesh was not new to John but he didn’t think he’d ever get used to it, he hoped he never would get used to it. “The stake?”

“Yes. Grecians used traditional platform pyres. Takes more time to build, more wood,” he looked around and saw a stack of depleted firewood near an outdoor supply building, “No tattoo this time either. There wouldn’t have been a point, it would have been charred off yet it’s part of her signature.” His eyes flicked from side to side, “A peacock feather,” he looked around pacing out, eyes narrowing, “Lestrade!”

“What?” The DI came up and frowned in the direction Sherlock was staring.

“He was still burning when you arrived?”

“Yeah. Wh-” before he could finish asking Sherlock took off at a run into the woods surrounding the house. “Bloody hell what?!”

“She’s still here!”

“What?” John was on Sherlock’s heels in the blink of an eye, bare restraining himself from reaching for the ankle gun in Lestrade’s sight. 

Mycroft was on his sleek phone, silently giving orders and already the faint hum of an helicopter could be heard in the distance. It seemed as if his merry men were on their way.

Lestrade cursed loudly and ran after Sherlock and John. One day Sherlock was going to be the death of him.

Sherlock’s legs ate up ground like a gazelle’s as he followed the footprints and trail markers he saw and then a flash of white just up ahead that began to flee. He put on more speed to catch her, spotting dark hair and olive skin in the moonlight. Private estate, no CCTV, no need to go in disguise. He jumped over a tree stump and was right behind her.

There was a hiss as the woman tried to push more power into her feet, get that final last push to outrun the man behind her.

John was close by, he didn’t have the long legs Sherlock did but he had stamina, more than that, he had determination. He wanted his hands on that bitch; he wanted to make her pay.

The bright light of a chopper lit up the forest, made John blink from the brightness of it and seemingly from one moment to the next the woman was simply gone.

Sherlock growled, actually growled. He’d almost had his hand around the back of her shirt before the lights from the helicopter blinded him, misdirecting his grab, and letting her get away. 

Greg came up just behind John and Sherlock, not panting quite as hard as John was but nowhere near as controlled in his breathing as Sherlock. “She got away?”

Sherlock nodded sharply, “I suppose you’d arrest me if I committed fratricide in front of you.”

“It’s my job so yeah.”

“What if it was an accident?” John ripped the wig off his head, scratching at his sweat damped hair. “I just happen to bump into him and oh the pity we both stumble and I just happen to break the bastard’s neck?” He gave Lestrade a wide eyed innocent look. 

“Get in line, besides I don’t think a bloody earthquake could make Mycroft Holmes stumble.” Greg pulled out his talkie, “Donovan, the suspect escaped, make sure the umbrella toting bastard knows it’s because his minions lit up the forest like a bloody stadium and tell him to get the hell off my crime scene if he plans on continuing to be so _helpful_.”

“I would Sir.” Donovan’s voice crackled over the walkie talkie. “Sadly it appears as if Mr. Holmes had left, there was this car and this woman who looked like a model and then he was just gone.”

John felt like growling but he had to admit to himself at least that Mycroft Holmes was indeed a very smart man. He would run too if he managed to piss Greg off to that degree. 

“Right. Of course.” A muscle in Greg’s jaw ticked and twitched, “Off out then.” He looked at Sherlock, “If your brother somehow winds up floating in the Thames I probably won’t look twice at you.” He tucked his talkie back away, “Anything else you need to do here?”

Sherlock shook his head, “No.”

“I’ll get a cab for you then.”

John nodded slowly, he knew a dismissal when he heard one and after all that had happened it wasn’t wise to push Greg’s buttons, not right now. “Will it be okay to wait for our statements until tomorrow then? We could come down to the station.” He wanted to shower and get rid of the prosthetics and make up...Then he wanted to curl up in his bed and maybe have a good cry on his lonesome.

“Yeah that’ll be fine. Come on then.”

Sherlock followed broodily until they were back at the foot of the drive, a more restored Donovan ordering the others around and guarding the tape. He barely noticed her nod followed by her normal pet name for him but knew it had been spoken from John’s sudden tension. He gripped John’s arm and shook his head, just continuing to walk. He was angry, with his brother, and with himself for not anticipating what Mycroft would do and being ready to adjust his approach for it, and he wanted just to get back to the flat so he could think away from all the tension and anger that was now floating around here.

It wasn’t long at all until a black cab rolled up the driveway, John watched Sherlock fold himself into the backseat before following his friend. He waited until the cab was rolling before turning to look at Sherlock.

“Why do you put up with it? With what they call you? Even after Moriarty, Barts...The roof...” John’s voice trailed off, that still hurt, it was still a ragged, bleeding wound inside him and John didn’t know if it ever would heal completely. “They are wrong; they know they are wrong so why do you let them get away with it?”

“Because their opinions don’t matter to me John,” his fingers twitched and tapped and drummed on his knee, “They don’t matter and nothing you or I can say or do will make them change. I learned that in primary school.” He pulled out his phone and brought up the scandal sheets despite his distaste for them.

“You shouldn’t have had to learn that in primary school.” John’s jaw was set in its usual stubborn line. “You are brilliant, what you do is amazing, you should have been told that every day of your life growing up. I know how fantastic you are, it matters to me, _you_ matter to me and I will never stop taking action when someone puts you down just because they aren’t as smart as you are.”

“That is why yours is the only opinion that matters to me John,” Sherlock looked up at him.

John faltered a little, floundering and searching for what to say. It was too important moment to simply brush it off. “I know how great you are, you have my respect and admiration and you’ll always have it, even when I want to rip your hair out for being an idiot.”

Sherlock didn’t smile the way he usually did, he couldn’t. The police thought nothing got to him at all but that was far from the truth. There was one thing that always got to him in cases and that was when children suffered. This murder scene had been wrenching and he wasn’t going to sleep until he caught this Antigone, which was almost certainly not her name. “I don’t think you even realize how amazing you, yourself are John. Of course if you ever do that would ruin it.”

“I’m exceedingly normal; just look at me jumpers and all.” John was still heartbroken, still felt the need to cry but he was trying his very best to be normal for Sherlock. He meant every word he said. Sherlock was extraordinary, special in the best way and John would always be there to remind Sherlock of that fact. 

“That is precisely it. You are normal, aside from the adrenaline addiction we share, yet when you deal with me you don’t react the way other normal people do. That makes you special John even though you can’t see it.” Sherlock looked down at his phone, eyes changing as he found what he was looking for, “Ah Nathan Brix, that would explain Mycroft’s presence.”

“What would?” John leaned so he could look at Sherlock’s phone. “His National Security covers a rather broad spectrum.” He knew it had to be something big for Mycroft Holmes to be there in person. Fieldwork was not something Mycroft ventured into unless it involved his brother. “Does it explain why Antigone chose this man as well?”

“Not this article, this one is on him being designated as the designer of a new national defense software,” he changed to another article, “The why is the resemblance to the Hercules figure. Former womanizer, an every-man’s hero from a privileged background, devoted husband and father.”

“Yeah, because loving your family is such a cause for being targeted and murdered.” John’s voice was laced with bitterness. “I would love to shoot this bitch, a clean shot right between her eyes but that would be too good for her. She should be exposed for the horrible person she is and she should be made to suffer.”

Perhaps but it’s better to just get rid of her.” Sherlock put his phone away as the cab rolled up beside the front door of the flat and he scooted out of the vehicle, heading upstairs, walking slowly enough that he kept John right behind him.

John thought about it. It wasn’t really any moral qualms that had him hesitating about putting a bullet in Antigone’s head. He actually worried more about Lestrade’s paperwork than he did any other consequences. There was only so much Greg could turn a blind eye to after all and if this bullet matched Jefferson Hope’s bullet then John would be pretty much screwed. It might be very selfish of him but he didn’t want to leave Sherlock’s side.

As soon as Sherlock was inside the flat and out of his coat again, he laid down on the couch and grabbed the nicotine patches. He didn’t put them on yet though, just stared at them and spoke quietly, “It’s the only sort of case I hate.”

“Because of the children?” John had been there to see Sherlock’s mask drop, besides, it really wasn’t all that hard to read Sherlock’s feelings when you knew where to look. He sighed and sunk down in his armchair, just wanting a moment of peace and calm before he went to shower. 

“Yes. I do actually like children despite what many think of me, they’ve not yet fallen into the trap of idiocy that adults walk into. I don’t like seeing children dead.” His jaw tightened and he tossed the nicotine patches aside, rolling to his feet to begin pacing. He hated this even more because children should never have to know the strike of a parent’s fist. It happened, he knew it happened all too well but it shouldn’t.

“I was eleven when I decided that I would never, ever have children.” John spoke calmly, still seated in the armchair he had claimed as his own the very first day he sat foot at 221B Baker Street. “Harry was fourteen then and she came home drunk for the first time. I looked at her as I helped her to bed without our parents noticing and it was like looking into a mirror image of Dad. Same hurtful comments, same tendency to take all frustration and irritation and channel them into their fists and feet. I knew then that I never wanted to bring a child into that. I have the same genes and I could never willingly put a child through that.” John exhaled and poked at the prosthetics on his face; he really should go and shower. “Children should never be afraid when they wake up; wondering if that would be a day spent hiding, a day spent in silence since Dad has a headache from his hangover. Should never have to be afraid of their own parents. What happened tonight is so much worse still...This was a loving father, a father who would never punch, kick or break an empty bottle over his children’s head. These children were loved and for him to be forced to do this to them...It makes something inside me die.”

Sherlock turned and went to crouch in front of John, his hand swiping a bottle and a cloth from his desk along the way. He soaked the cloth in the solution and tugged on one cheek prosthetic, exposing the edge and letting him wipe at the glue with the solution on the cloth, rubbing it away, “I know,” he knew because it wounded something within him as well. He slowly stripped the prosthetics from John’s face then found himself tracing the correct features with his fingers. “Just as I know you were blaming yourself. Wrong and stupid to do so. If you blame yourself you’d have to blame the entire population that was inside the pub as well. Why didn’t they see? Why didn’t they notice? Because she knows how to keep people from seeing.”

“You may be right but it doesn’t change how I feel.” Sherlock was so close, so close and John’s skin tingled where Sherlock had touched it. “Bill was a good man I just left him there with her. No matter how skilled she is at blending in I don’t think I’ll ever get over that. If I was just a little bit better, a little bit smarter, a little bit more like you...If only, then three children would lie sleeping in their beds right now, tucked in with kisses and fairy stories by a mother and a father who would never raise their hands at them.”

“You don’t want to be like me John.” His fingers ghosted over very fine scars on the left side of John’s face, ones only he or someone looking very, very close would notice, “No one would really want to be like me,” the inflection on the last words held a subtle, barely there loathing because there were times he wanted to be normal, times when he’d give so much to just still his mind for an hour or two, think about inane idiocies that normal people did, times when he’d like to be able to make friends easily but he knew he never could. He was what he was and so long as he had John, he could live with it.

“You are wonderful Sherlock, you really are...No one else could be like you, you are one of a kind, not weird or strange or freaky but unique in the best possible way.” John looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “What you can do with that massive brain of yours...It’s fantastic but that is not what makes you amazing. You see so much; know so much and you still care so much. You might try to hide it and pretend that you don’t but I see it. Despite everything you wear your heart on your sleeve Sherlock and I want nothing more than to protect it because oh what a beautiful heart you have.”

The organ in question began to beat harder and Sherlock moved so that his nose was barely a centimeter away from John’s, his mouth dry and his hands trembling, “John...” He searched the dark blue eyes before letting his own slide shut so John wouldn’t see the desperate pleading in them not to be rejected and so he wouldn’t see disgust on John’s face as he leaned in closer until his lips brushed against John’s thinner ones.

It was barely a brush of lips against lips but John could feel it all the way down to this toes. He couldn’t believe this was happening, didn’t quite dare to believe it was real. Sherlock Holmes was kissing him. Beautiful, brilliant, amazing Sherlock. It was like something from his dreams. At first he sat stock still, eyes wide with disbelief and shock. Then with an exhaled sigh he leaned in just a little bit and pressed his lips more firmly against Sherlock. Still soft, still chaste, just a movement of their lips together but it still meant more than any other kiss John had ever had.

Sherlock felt John’s response and swore his heart hitched in his chest. He angled his head a bit more to better feel the slide of lips against lips, one hand curved around John’s neck and the other gripped at the polo shirt, just over where the scar on John’s shoulder was. He made a sound, somewhat like a sigh. He was kissing John, at long last he was kissing John and John wasn’t pushing him away, he was responding. He knew the science behind interpersonal chemistry but knowing it and feeling it were two very different things so while he knew dopamine and endorphins were flooding through him, it felt like lightning in a bottle. A feeling he savored.

One hand came up and sank into rich, dark curls and the other went to Sherlock’s face where he brushed a sharp cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. John had wanted this for so long, longer than he’d been aware of wanting it. Sherlock’s lips were perfect for kissing, plush and warm and just a little bit chapped, a proof that this was real and that it was happening. John sighed into the kiss, wanting to savor the feeling, wanting it to keep going forever. 

“John,” it was almost a prayer against the doctor’s lips as Sherlock shifted, his hands slipping down and around to clutch at the back of John’s shirt. He wasn’t quite certain what to do. He wasn’t a virgin, something many people would disbelieve he knew, when his libido made itself known, rare though that was, he took care of it with a willing partner picked up from some high end club. Those encounters were nothing like this, they’d only been rushed moments to take care of mind clouding lust, no caring or tenderness. That wasn’t at all what he wanted with John but he didn’t know how to go about giving the tenderness he wanted to.

John continued to rub his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone, the one in his hair traveled down to stroke Sherlock’s back. He moved away from Sherlock’s mouth long enough to bring their foreheads together, then he pressed a kiss to said forehead, a kiss to each sharp cheekbone and a kiss over Sherlock’s cupid’s bow. Then he caught that enticing upper lip between both of his own as he slowly deepened the kiss.

Sherlock made a hum, almost a moan and sank into the kiss, nibbling and sucking on John’s lower lip, returning the favor. John tasted like spice, like nutmeg and allspice, and heat. He almost nuzzled into him, his hands flattening and smoothing over the muscles in his back that shifted under skin and fabric. 

Sherlock’s mouth was sweet; John imagined that it was all the sugared coffee. It was an addictive sweetness, laced with the pure taste of Sherlock and John wanted more of it so he licked his way into Sherlock’s mouth, tasting all he could. He cupped Sherlock’s neck and sighed blissfully against Sherlock’s lips.

Now he did moan, licking against John’s tongue and sucking, welcoming the slick muscle into his mouth happily. Keeping their mouths connected he rose to straddle John’s lap, settling himself comfortably on the strong, well sculpted thighs. His mind still ran rapidly through every last bit of data it could but it was all about John, his reactions, his taste, the feel of his muscles. His world narrowed down to the man he was kissing and nothing more except perhaps the various sexual positions he knew existed.

It was John’s turn to moan and he did, deep and low as his hands shifted to Sherlock’s lower back, stroking and holding as he let the heat inside him explode as he twirled his tongue with Sherlock’s, the kiss taking a different note though the underlying tenderness was still there. The weight of Sherlock in his lap was welcome and John tilted his head back so he could deepen the kiss even more. 

Sherlock ran his hands over John’s shoulders, along his arms then let them splay over that perfect, broad chest as they kissed and sank into each other. The heat of John’s hands on his lower back seeped into his very bones, taking away the chill he always seemed to carry with him and making him practically melt into the other man. Pressed torso to torso, Sherlock could almost feel John’s heat beating against his own, the thrum of life.

John was kissing Sherlock with his entire being, the cat was out of the bag anyway now and John didn’t want this to be their only kiss. He wanted to kiss Sherlock everyday for as long as he could imagine. Everything else paled and all John knew was that Sherlock was there, pressed against him, alive and warm and beautiful and John never wanted to let him go. The words they pressed and pushed and John had no choice but to let them out. It felt as he would explode if he didn’t. He tore himself away from Sherlock’s lips and buried his face in the crook of the younger man’s neck. “I love you.”

Sherlock’s breath left him. It was sentiment and falling into the ridiculous trap of romance, but hearing John say that was thrilling, and terrifying. Because he could all too easily say the wrong thing and hurt him. He slid his arms around John and bent his head over his, “John...I don’t have words. Not for this. I have the science running around in my head, dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, but I don’t have words.” He held tighter, hoping John’s medical training would translate the list of brain chemicals into the right conclusion.

John smiled against the warm skin of Sherlock’s neck, oh yes, Sherlock was most definitely one of a kind. “It’s fine, words are overrated anyway, I’ll say them for the both of us. I love you Sherlock Holmes, I love you.” The skin beneath his lips was much too tempting and John pressed his lips against it, kissing that long, strong, proud neck and feeling Sherlock’s pulse jump against his mouth.

Sherlock leaned his head back, happy to let John do as he willed, the feel of his mouth on his skin skimming through him. “Perhaps I forgot to mention the testosterone of the moment,” he made an almost squeak when he felt John’s teeth nip at him in a wordless scold that didn’t have the effect he imagined John had been wanting. After the noise he made a breathy hum, “Oh do that again.”

Interesting, very interesting indeed. “Liked that did you?” John licked his way up Sherlock’s neck until his mouth rested just below Sherlock’s ear, he opened it and bit down, a little bit harder this time and Sherlock jolted in response, his breath quickening. “This is a study that will require much more data I believe.” There was a smile in John’s voice though the words came out low and rough. 

Sherlock moaned at just the thought of it. He’d never had someone’s teeth on him before so he certainly hadn’t known he’d have such a reaction but this was John so he had no problem with it. “Well, far be it from me to,” he caught his breath at another gentle nibble, “impede scientific discovery.” He found himself reaching up and shifting his fingered through the short cap of John’s hair.

John’s chuckle rasped in his throat as his fingers crept up to undo the buttons on Sherlock’s button down shirt. He nipped at Sherlock’s collarbone, the hollow of his throat and then he let his teeth rake over perfect, pale skin before biting down on Sherlock’s shoulder, nearly breaking that flawless skin. 

This time it was a low keen and he arched into the bite, feeling himself harden completely in seconds. He gasped out, “Careful. I don’t...never...haven’t explored and much more of that and I’ll...” he let himself trail off, meaning heavy in his voice.

“Fuck.” It came out as a deep heartfelt groan. “What you do to me...You mean you could come just from me putting my mouth on you? Biting you?” John slid a hand inside Sherlock’s open shirt, brushing a pebbled nipple with his fingers. “So what would happen if I bit you here?”

He sucked in a sharp breath and shivered, the spike of sensation from John’s fingers brushing over him making his blood heat more. “I don’t know,” he shifted his hips, his erection pressing against John, “but based on the evidence yes I think I could come just from your mouth on me and biting me there...” he shivered again, “Save it for another day perhaps?”

“Hmm.” John circled that beautiful, pink nipple with his fingers, a considering look on his face. “You might be right, I want to take my time with you, have you stretched out in bed as I lick you from the bottom of your feet to the top of your head. Think of all the places I could press my teeth, the back of your knees, inside of your thighs, right beneath your navel...” He let his voice trail off.

Sherlock shivered and moaned, “Please. Yes. John,” he looked into John’s eyes, they were dilated and he could measure his pulse from the tick in his neck, “I want you. I _want_ it, all you can give me. Please.”

“You have me Sherlock, I’m all yours, have been since the first time we met.” John cupped Sherlock’s face and pressed their foreheads together again. “I want you too and I will give it all to you.” He was so hard, wanted Sherlock so much but Sherlock was right, this wasn’t the time to indulge in that want. “I want you today, I’ll want you tomorrow and for as long as the days will stretch out before us.”

“We’ll keep each other then?” It was an almost childlike question, one he nearly wanted to slap himself for, but he hadn’t been able to restrain it. No one had ever wanted him before, not really, and absolutely no one had ever wanted to keep him. Not the odd few friends he had scattered round, not family, even Molly for all her generous nature, she didn’t understand all that he was and how all that he was would hurt her and stifle her so her feelings for him were idealized. John though, John knew him, every last little bit of him and even when frustrated he didn’t truly leave. he went out for air, for control, but he didn’t leave and Sherlock didn’t think he could stifle John if he tried.

“We’ll keep each other.” John agreed, voice serious. Through a miracle he’d gotten Sherlock back when he’d thought him lost forever. John already knew that nothing would make him leave, he would always be there, always silently support Sherlock when he needed someone to lean on, which he did though he never admitted it. “You are difficult, infuriating, obnoxious and rude. Wonderful, brilliant and amazing and I wouldn’t want you any other way. I love you and I will keep you for as long as you let me.”

He shifted once more, draping his legs over the side of John’s chair so he was sitting sideways in John’s lap, his head resting on his shoulder, and trying to ignore his very insistent erection, “Always. I never want you to go.” He wanted all of John but he also needed him.

“Where would I go? Without you everything loses its color, turns cold and gray. I’m not going anywhere, I’m yours remember?” John pressed a kiss against Sherlock’s temple and wormed one hand inside Sherlock’s trousers, cupping him through his pants. It wasn’t a night for biting and teasing but he could still get Sherlock off, wanted to get him off.

Sherlock moaned softly, his hips rolling up into the touch. “Goes...both ways.” He nuzzled at John’s jaw, “I belong to you. Think I have since you shot the cabbie.”

Something warm and loving but at the same time sharp and possessive curled inside John’s stomach at those words. He slipped his hand inside Sherlock’s pants as well and stroked Sherlock’s erection, skin against skin. “You were about to take the pill you bloody idiot, of course I shot him.” He loved the sounds that Sherlock was making, wanted to hear more of them, wanted to be the cause of them always.

“Needed to prove I was right. Then. Not anymore, not now.” He shivered and made a mewl as John’s hand stroked him, “Have you now. Don’t need to prove it.” Then he quit talking and gave himself up to sensation. He kissed, licked, and sucked on the side of John’s neck, not applying his own teeth, it actually didn’t occur to him as he was after tasting, not claiming.

It was beautiful, witnessing Sherlock give in to sensations and watching him come undone. It was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. He increased his pace, wanting so badly to see Sherlock come. “No, you don’t need to prove it anymore; I know how amazing you are because you really are Sherlock in every way.”

He shuddered and squirmed. It was a little bit...embarrassing that John praising him had him closer to coming than before. John was the only one who brought out these reactions in him, who made him want, and need, and _feel_. He clung to him tightly sucking at the spot just under his jaw, shivering and feeling his orgasm drawing closer and closer.

“Brilliant, beautiful...Mine.” John’s voice was low and smooth as he whispered words at Sherlock. He ran his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s erection and held him as Sherlock arched and spilled all over his hand.

Sherlock’s fingers dug in to John’s shoulders and his head flew back as he came, a soft cry falling from his lips as he did. His mind was a wash of colors and light and sensation and he couldn’t think but it didn’t frighten him because John was there, holding him steady and keeping him from flying apart. 

John held him throughout the shakes and shivers of his orgasm while whispering soft words of love and always. He pulled his sticky hand out of Sherlock’s trousers and with his eyes locked on Sherlock’s still dazed ones he licked it clean. Now he really needed that shower but Sherlock was a comfortable weight on his lap and John didn’t feel like moving. Right now he was holding everything that mattered to him in the world and John couldn’t think of a better use of his time than to continue to hold Sherlock close.

The look in John’s eyes as he’d licked his semen off his hand made Sherlock groan and he licked his own lips. He had to wonder how John tasted now, not to mention he’d like to return the favor. He squirmed and wriggled and managed to somehow slip down and out of John’s lap until he was kneeling in front of him again. He rubbed his cheek on the knee of the khaki trousers as his fingers went to the zip.

John sucked in a breath through his teeth and looked down at Sherlock with wide-blown eyes. “Sherlock...You don’t have to...I don’t expect...” He was too shocked, too aroused to even get a full sentence out. 

“Do I ever do anything because it’s what someone expects John?” He freed the button and pulled down the zip, hooked his fingers in both the waist band of the trousers and the boxers, “Lift up? Unless you don’t want me to?”

“Don’t want you to?” John looked at Sherlock as if he’d lost his mind. “Christ Sherlock, look at the state I’m in because of you.” He nodded down toward his groin as he lifted his hips so Sherlock could get his clothes down. “You drive me crazy...I _always_ want you.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock pulled the trousers and pants down quickly then ran his hands up the exposed upper thighs. “You do appear to be very obviously enjoying the prospect.” He moved forward, wrapping his fingers around the thick shaft and giving the head and experimental lick.

Cursing under his breath, John’s hips jerked and his hands went to the armrests of the chair, clutching them for dear life. Sherlock’s hand was around his cock, Sherlock’s _tongue_ was on his cock and it was enough to make John have a complete meltdown. He’d dreamt about this, fantasized about it for so long...Reality was so much better than any of his dreams though. 

Sherlock filed away John’s reaction, a wicked smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, and swept his tongue around the tip of John’s prick before taking it into his mouth. It was an experience he’d not indulged in much so he knew that what he was doing was basic, perhaps even a little bit fumbling, but John was certainly seeming to enjoy it if his white knuckles and the precome leaking onto his tongue were any indication.

“Sherlock!” It was a plea, a prayer and a command all at once. John felt as if he was about to burst out of his very skin. Sherlock’s beautiful, wicked mouth was on him and John’s world had narrowed down to that simple fact. All he saw, thought and felt was Sherlock. This wouldn’t take long, John was wound far too tight for that. His balls were already tightening and he had to forcefully keep his hips still so he didn’t thrust up and choke Sherlock. 

Never let it be said that Sherlock’s powers of observation weren’t keen because he moved both hands to grip John’s hips, keeping them still, though if John tried hard to move them it would be a strain to maintain that hold, and took more of the shaft into him mouth until he couldn’t take anymore without gagging. Then he pulled back, his already prominent cheekbones standing out further as his cheeks hollowed. He set up a slow steady bob of his head, taking John in, backing off, in and out, in and out.

“So...fucking...gorgeous.” John pried one hand off the armrest to once again stroke the pad of his thumb over a cheekbone. “I could come just watching you....Though your mouth, it turns me inside out.” John gasped the words out, lost in the pleasure that Sherlock gave him. “Please...Sherlock...Going to come.” John’s toes curled and flashes of pure pleasure ran down his spine.

Sherlock jerked just a bit as John spurted into his mouth, surprised by how quickly he did, then he swallowed rapidly, trying to keep up but unable to and wound up with the last bit of ejaculate splashing on his face. It wasn’t an unpleasant taste per se, though sugared coffee it was not, nor was he irritated to have come on his face. All that was overshadowed by the look on John’s face as if he’d just seen his God and fuck it was beautiful.

If John hadn’t just come he might have blown his load at the sight of Sherlock with his semen on his face. Fuck he hadn’t even known he had such a possessive streak but something inside him liked the sight, liked it very, very much. “Come here.” John’s hands curled around Sherlock and he pulled him up so that he could lick Sherlock’s face clean before he dove in for a deep kiss. “I love you.”

Sherlock didn’t reply verbally, both not comfortable with the term and a bit out of breath from that kiss, but he took John’s hand and, in a wave of what he felt certain Mycroft would consider disgusting sentiment, placed it over his heart.

John smiled and kept his hand over Sherlock’s heart, feeling the steady thump against his palm. The action spoke louder than any words could. “I promise I will keep it safe.”

“You always have.” It was a whisper, barely audible. Soon enough he would be up and hopping, working things out, untangling the threads to find their killer before she took another life, but he wanted a few more moments to relax and settle into John.

John stayed where he was, pulling Sherlock more firmly onto his lap again in what was a post orgasm cuddle though he would never voice that out loud, not to himself and certainly not to Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock would be back to constant movement soon, the air around him would flutter with energy but for now, just for now it was wonderful to just hold him.

_**~to be continued...~** _


	5. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun._

 **Warning:** _Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually._

**Tales of a Feather.**

**_Chapter Five._ **

Gregory Lestrade followed the smartly attired butler through the Diogenes club silently. He knew about the rules of the club from John and he had no plans to shout, or scream, or otherwise do something to get himself evicted before he’d made his point. And he would make his point.

Mycroft sat behind a large antique desk; of course he knew that the detective inspector was there so there was no surprise when the door swung open after a polite and discreet knock. “DI Lestrade, to what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice was low and even.

Lestrade shut the door then turned around, his own voice, while low, wasn’t quite as even by both upbringing and the pure, undiluted anger he was feeling at Mycroft Holmes. “Oh you know what you ‘owe the pleasure’ to. I tolerate Sherlock at a crime scene because he’s good at what he does; he gets results even as he drives me round the twist. I more than tolerate John because he’s helpful and keeps Sherlock on the leash enough so the rest of us don’t get left in the dust. You on the other hand,” his eyes flashed, “might be good at what you do, maybe jury’s still out considering what happened tonight, but what you do is too big for a crime scene. I’d have thought the man who helped Sherlock Holmes fake his death for three years would have been smarter. Apparently I thought wrong.”

“Apparently so.” The tone of Mycroft’s voice didn’t change but there was a coil of unease in his gut. He didn’t know why since Lestrade’s opinion of his shouldn’t matter. “As for this evening, it was a...miscalculation. The helicopter over the woods did not have my authorization and they have been dealt with appropriately.” He met the DI’s eyes. “Also I did not help Sherlock fake his death, I would have done my best to discourage him from that action had I known. All I did was to try and keep him alive during the years he spent underground.” 

“Bollocks. Authorization or not they were your men and, as I got informed a few years ago by this certain slick suited git with an umbrella, your men are your responsibility and when they go off the rails or deviate from orders it’s your mistake in their training. I don’t care if it means the possibility of Ireland exploding, I don’t care if you run every aspect of the British Government, and I don’t care if your bodyguards tackle me to the ground, you ever come onto one of my crime scenes and fuck things up again I’ll break your nose, maybe some of your teeth. I know you and Sherlock like to think I’m stupid and can’t run an op for nothing but I know enough to know that helicopters at a crime scene are over kill. You’d have done better with grounds men in cars, you Mycroft Almighty Holmes, think too big and I’ll thank you to keep that big thinking off my crime scenes.”

“Oh yes, I see it now, why he likes you so much.” Strangely enough, Mycroft looked almost pleased, like he had just solved a particularly intriguing puzzle. “I have never spoken or thought negatively about your intellect Detective Inspector and if Sherlock thought you stupid he would never have worked on your cases to begin with, addicted to the Work or not. I suppose I could promise to keep off your crime scenes from now on but we both know that would be a lie now don’t we?” Mycroft’s elbows rested on his desk and his chin rested on his clasped together hands. “Oh and do give Sherlock and John some time before you call them down to the Yard tomorrow, they’ve had a bit of an intense evening. I wonder if I should send them something to congratulate them, a new micro oven perhaps?”

Greg picked up the implication easily and folded his arms across his chest, he was really starting to see why Sherlock actually admitted to pitying him when he’d seen him home from the pub, and he really didn’t like the fact that the pleased look Mycroft was sporting made his hormones leap in a way they hadn’t since he was a teenager, “Bout damn time and if you really want your nose broken go ahead, I’m sure Sherlock won’t mind sending me the pictures of John clocking you.” He turned around and walked out, giving the butler waiting outside the door a nod before sauntering away. He wondered if Mycroft had his flat bugged and decided that if he did then the least he could do the next time he was alone was give the operators a show.

Once outside on the sidewalk he sent a text to Sherlock. ‘Bout time the two of you got your act together but you might want to check your flat for bugs. Your brother is thinking about sending you an appliance. -GL’

He waited for a second then send another text to Mycroft, whose number he had as a precaution thanks to Sherlock. ‘If you really want to send them something and don’t want John smashing your nose in, get a second refrigerator for Sherlock to keep the body parts in. John might actually thank you then.- GL’

Mycroft opened the message on his phone and actually chuckled. He leaned back in his leather chair and read the message again. Oh but Gregory Lestrade was such an interesting person and the fire he had shown just now was delicious. Tapping his fingertips on the gleaming surface of the desk, Mycroft mentally rearranged his to do list, it was obviously time to move the detective inspector up to the top of his list of priorities. 

Thank you for the suggestion, should I put both our names on the card then? - M 

The reply was swift. ‘Don’t bother; I already gave them my gift. -GL’ Greg tucked his phone away and headed to the Met to do some work. Fair warning about Mycroft and his bugs was a congratulation present as far as he was concerned. Though he’d give a lot to be a fly on the wall round about now, just to see Sherlock’s reaction.

**oOoOoOo**

 

Sherlock’s reaction was growling and proceeding to construct a transmitter jammer while he had his computer run a facial recognition search. “Bloody Mycroft.”

“What’s he done now?” John was rubbing his still damp hair with a towel, making it stick up all over his head like chicken feathers. His flannel pyjama bottoms rode low on his hips and his t-shirt was soft and worn from years of use. He’d finally had his shower, all traces of glue and make up washed away. When he’d headed into the shower Sherlock had been in a good mood but now he was growling. Of course that had to be Mycroft’s doing.

“I got a text from Lestrade,” he jerked his head at his phone, essentially telling John to have a look, “and now I’m doing something about my brother’s distasteful habit of planting spying devices in the flat.”

Walking over to the table, John picked up the phone, his face growing flushed with irritation as he read. “Fuck, I don’t care about getting tackled down by your brother’s goons; he’s just asking to be punched in the face again.” What had happened with Sherlock that night had been private, wonderful, amazing and _private_. The thought that Mycroft could have seen or heard it all made something uneasy and uncomfortable curl inside his stomach. Mycroft had crossed a line and John would make sure the bastard knew that when he saw him next.

“I would suggest we lock him in a room with Donovan and Anderson until his brain liquefies from proximity to their stupidity but unfortunately that would negatively impact the economy.” Sherlock soldered a circuit then connected it to a power source before pulling a small device from his pocket and throwing it across the room. He opened an application on his computer and smiled when nothing but snow filled his screen. “Good, that will keep his nose out until I can find and destroy his little spy cameras.” He then returned to looking through the search results that were starting to pop up.

“I still feel like causing him bodily harm, sometimes there’s nothing more satisfying that a good punch that leaves your knuckles aching from the force of it.” John tossed the used towel over the back of his armchair and looked around the room, amusing himself by trying to figure out where the bugs could be before Sherlock went after them. “You should know...I’ve punched you twice.”

“Indeed. Far be it from me to deny you your favorite form of catharsis, hit him, by all means. It will be pleasant to be on the witness end. I’ll take a picture and share it with Lestrade as a thank you for the information, he’ll appreciate that.” His fingers flew over the keyboard, eyes scanning and twitching as he looked through the images and articles his search on Nathan Brix. He froze and smiled slowly, the same smile he wore when a hunt started, “There you are.”

All thoughts of Mycroft and where it would hurt the most to be punched were shelved for later and John walked closer to Sherlock, once again leaning over his shoulder. “You found her?” John should probably be apprehensive when that smile made its appearance but God help him, he could feel his own heart pounding faster with the expectation of what that particular smile brought.

“Who she really is at least. Kallisto Lanning.” A few keystrokes had a Google search bringing up scandal sheets. “Illegitimate daughter of actor Bruce Lanning and a Grecian socialite, she was shipped off to the UK two weeks after birth. Seems like the usual upbringing for an upper crust child, nannies, boarding schools, best arts college in the world. A younger brother, Benjamen Lanning, archaeologist specializing in Grecian graves. It seems the entire family has a love of Greece or certain aspects of it. Artist, recluse, and, according to this human interest piece, avid gardener with a preference for tropical plants.”

“There’s love for Greece and then there’s obsession and I think it’s safe to say that Miss Lanning has crossed the line into obsession, a twisted one at that.” John glared at the computer screen, wishing he could reach through it and snap her neck. “I don’t care what reasons she has, poor little rich girl, what she’s done is unforgivable in every aspect.”

Sherlock simply hummed in agreement and fired off a text to Lestrade and his brother, “Lestrade will probably bring in the brother to question him about his sister’s haunts and habits but she won’t be at her home. She knows I saw her. She’ll go to ground, she’s not stupid. An entire host of other negative things but not stupid.”

“If the brother is away on an excavation it can be troublesome to reach him and going for the father will insure a whole fleet of lawyers hired in a blink of an eye.” John hoped of course that the brother would be in Britain and that he would talk to Lestrade. He was just used to it raining shite instead of roses. 

Sherlock reached up and touched John’s cheek in understanding. “That’s certainly true.” He looked down when his phone chimed and read the texts first from Lestrade then his brother. “Lestrade will bring the brother in for an interview in the morning and my brother is going to tie up Bruce Lanning in customs. It appears that Miss Lanning’s father is currently in Africa.”

“Thank goodness for small favors, if anyone can tie Bruce Lanning up in customs it is Mycroft. I will still punch him but if he does a good job of it I might not break anything.” John nuzzled Sherlock’s hand before it dropped away. “If you text Lestrade more tonight, tell him to hit the brother fast and hard with crime scene photos of what his sister has done. He’s going to want to protect her, it’s what brothers do.”

“Oh I intend to be in observation in the morning,” his brows knit, “and you won’t be. You’ve a shift at the clinic as memory serves.”

John nodded. “Yeah and aside from me not being able to afford losing any more shifts at the surgery I don’t think I should be there. I would probably do something stupid and that would hurt the case.” It was difficult to admit that but it was the truth, John was much too emotionally involved to be of help with an interrogation. 

“Ugh I’ll have to work with Lestrade; he makes it difficult to think.” He angled his head back, spotting where his mouth had left a mark high on John’s neck, too high to be hidden by a collar and his lips twitched before he sighed. “Nothing else to be done tonight unfortunately.”

John bent down a little so he could give Sherlock an upside down kiss. “I know we’re in the middle of a case but you could try to get some sleep.” He carded his fingers through dark curly hair. “I have to be at the Surgery in...Oh five hours, I know I would sleep better if you rested too. I won’t force you though.”

“I doubt I’ll sleep,” he leaned into the gently stroke, “but I will lay down with you.”

“Okay.” John knew that was a huge compromise from Sherlock and he appreciated it. “Thank you.”

He could have mentioned that he’d been wanting to monitor John’s sleeping patterns for some time or that he was likely to slip out of the bed before morning, mind too restless to stay still, but he didn’t. He just stood from the computer and lifted a brow, “Your bed or mine?”

“Mine.” The answer came quickly and without hesitation. “I’m sorry...I mean...I’m a creature of habit and I still have nightmares. It...helps to know where I am when I wake up.” John didn’t mention that the nightmares had shifted from sand and blood and gunfire to the roof at Barts. Sherlock was a genius, he probably already knew that.

He did and it was one of the few things to cause him to feel guilt. So he nodded, “I’ll get my dressing gown and meet you upstairs then.”

“Yes, good, fine.” John smiled at Sherlock before padding upstairs and turning down his bed. Suddenly he felt nervous, as if sharing a bed like this was even more intimate than what they’d shared earlier. John hoped to God that he would sleep through the night without dreams. 

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to join him, pajamas hanging on his lanky frame. He draped his dressing gown over the nightstand and slid into the bed beside John, snuggling up to him immediately. “Sleep John.” 

Sherlock was warm against his side, warm and there and alive. John let out a shaky breath, wrapped his arms around the man in his bed and did as Sherlock said. He slept.

**oOoOoOo**

 

Sherlock stood in the observation room, aware that Donovan was near to bristling at his presence as Lestrade walked into the interview room and solicitously offered Ben Lanning something to drink. They were both watching from behind the one-way mirror and it was already annoying. “I’ve never actually seen Lestrade interview someone before. Interesting.” From what he was seeing the Detective Inspector was starting off soft, working around the edges.

“He’s good at it, knows when to play it soft and when to be hard.” Sally kept her gaze firmly on what happened on the other side of the mirror so she wouldn’t have to look at Sherlock Holmes. Sally didn’t like him, he was a loose cannon and he might have been innocent of what happened three years ago but in her mind it was only a matter of time. 

“Lestrade is good at his job, it’s why I work with him,” he watched the brother twitch just a bit as Lestrade mentioned a witness to his sister’s presence near one of the murders. “I don’t work well with Anderson because he’s barely competent at his job and yet he tries to move beyond what he’s trained for with wild theories that even you have to admit do not hold water.”

“You’re dangerous, you know you are. I take a barely competent forensic any day over a man like you. At least I can trust Anderson to have my back when I need it. Can you say the same? How many times have you gotten Dr. Watson in danger? How many times has it been you that’s hurt him?” She still stared out of the mirror stubbornly. The brother was becoming defensive, it showed that he was beginning to realize that his sister might just have committed the crimes she was suspected of and he didn’t want to believe it. 

The sting of that question went deep but he didn’t show it. Instead he pulled out his phone to text Lestrade John’s suggestion and spoke steadily, “I jumped off Bart’s, faked my own death, and went after mercenaries alone for three years to keep snipers from putting a bullet through John’s head. Something you should remember about him Sally, he’s a soldier and he is just as dangerous as I am. He simply hides it better. Or did you forget that he punched your Superintendent for insulting me once I was out of the room?”

“I have no idea why but the man thinks you hung both the moon and the stars in the sky.” Sally’s voice was sharp. “You may have tricked him into believing you did what you did for his sake but I know better, you did it because you had to be the one solving even that puzzle. You said it yourself, John is a soldier...Don’t you think you could have finished faster with his help? Instead you left him broken. You have no idea how broken he was, no idea because he won’t show you. I see you for what you are Sherlock Holmes and when the mask you wear finally cracks, I am going to be there.”

“No Sergeant Donovan, you don’t see me for what I am. You see your own petty prejudices, jealousies, and insecurities because I call you on the affair you have with Anderson. I know better than you can imagine how badly broken John was and yes, I could have finished faster had I been able to have his help but if he’d vanished the fiction of my death would have been uncovered and that would have spelled death for two other people,” he leaned close to speak into her ear, “one of whom is in that interview room right now doing what he does best and what you still need to learn how to do.”

He straightened, “But do keep your illusions Sally, it’s all the more interesting when you’re proven wrong.”

“Save the show for someone who’s gullible enough to fall for it.” Sally felt her ire rise at the mentioning of her relationship with Anderson. She swallowed down her irritation with difficulty, for some unexplainable reason Lestrade trusted Holmes and since she wanted to make DI sooner rather than later she would keep her mouth shut and not burn her bridges. “Look, Lestrade’s got him now.” Ben Lanning was looking at the crime scene photos with pure heartbreak in his eyes.

He chose to smirk at her and turned to study the killer’s brother. He didn’t care for Sally’s regard, the main reason he’d poked at her and told her what he had was to irritate her. Not to mention he rather enjoyed the thought of continually ruining her chances at advancement. He’d seen the evaluations the department psychologist gave her. The only things keeping her back was her tendency to make fast judgments based on her own opinion, an inability to change those judgments despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, and, his personal favorite, her ‘almost obsessive’ belief that he was a psychopath who could snap at any moment combined with the need to be the one to catch him when he did. Perhaps it was petty to deliberately antagonize her flaws with the goal of keeping her out of the Detective Inspector promotion but he couldn’t help but feel gleeful vindication every time he did

He watched the brother crumple and begin crying into his hands and Lestrade settle in to wait the sobbing out to ask questions then rolled his eyes. They would be here all day. It was a reminder of why he’d not applied to become a police officer himself. Too much waiting and you had to employ _tact_. He hoped John’s day was at least going to be less boring.

_**~to be continued...~** _


	6. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun._

 **Warning:** _Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually._

**Tales of a Feather.**

**_Chapter Six._ **

Sarah Sawyer smiled and picked up another of the finished files the nurse had brought from John. He’d come in today not exactly ‘happy’ but there was something lighter in his step and a look in his eyes that she, as a woman, managed to recognize as the look of being in love and having it be requited. She was happy for him. He was too good of a friend, too good of a man to be alone. It still made her somewhat sad that they really hadn’t fit right but she’d long ago come to accept it. She liked a little excitement from time to time but mostly she was the sort to just curl up in the quiet. That wasn’t John; John thrived on the rush of adrenaline and excitement that put him in danger regularly. So she’d broken it off but maintained her friendship with him.

She frowned when she saw a line starting to back up and after asking the nurse manning the desk about it, she went to see what had John not answering the intercom. The door was open and she peeked in, barely managing to stifle her gasp when she saw blood trickling from what looked like a blow to the head and an exotic woman standing over him, a thin knife in her hand while his hands were shackled to the file cabinet. Sarah swallowed and tensed, she’d run in and fight if she had to to help John but she didn’t think she’d be much use, the woman was taller and more fit than she was so she’d probably be easily knocked out or killed herself. 

So she pulled out her phone and sent a text to the one person she knew would break laws to get here and help. 

**oOoOoOo**

Sherlock was trying to crack into the killer’s laptop as Anderson and his forensic team bagged the trophies Kallisto Lanning had collected from her victims. She had excellent encryption so Sherlock was having a little bit of difficulty but he knew that they needed to get into the computer. She would have planned every murder out meticulously and her plans would be in the computer and, as her case with her instruments of murder was missing, they needed to get in.

He was aware of his brother appearing and Lestrade giving him a growling warning but he was more fixed on the task at hand. 

Lestrade folded his arms, giving Mycroft a glare, “Well fine, but until your little cyber minions show up I’ll let Sherlock keep having a go,” turned to look at the consulting detective watching as he huffed out in irritation when his phone chimed and he had to break his rhythm to check it, “keeps him occupied and-” his words dried up when he saw Sherlock Holmes pale and he was already striding over, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and he met his brother’s eyes, “I have to get to John _now_. She’s got him.”

“Take the car, it’s parked right outside, the driver will take you there faster than any other car transport.” Mycroft had visibly stiffened. John Watson was the only thing that really kept Sherlock tethered to the ground and having witnessed firsthand what this woman was capable of Mycroft worried. “I suggest we follow Detective Inspector, before you have another murder on your hands.”

“You mean before I’ve two bloody murders on my hands,” Greg watched Sherlock streak off faster than even he had hope of following, he barked out instructions into his talky, making the intuitive leap that John was probably being held at the surgery he worked at, grabbed Mycroft’s arm with his other hand absently and pulled him to his squad car. Once inside it, Mycroft Holmes in the passenger seat next to him, and tearing through London’s streets with the siren blaring, he completed his thought, “Sherlock’s not a psychopath and he’s not the sociopath he likes to make believe he is either but if Lanning kills John, Sherlock’s going to kill her. I really don’t want to have to arrest him again.”

“No it would be preferable if he wasn’t arrested. It is so tiresome to get the case dismissed when he misbehaves, I really would prefer not to have to deal with that.” Mycroft’s voice was its usual calm drawl but his palms were actually sweaty, they were _never_ sweaty. Mycroft knew though that if Sherlock lost John, then an arrest would be the least of his worries.

Greg nearly spun out the tires going round a turn, “I also don’t want to see him self-destruct. God help me but the little bastard’s grown on me,” his features were set, stubborn, and there was a hard anger banked in his eyes. He had come to view John and Sherlock as friends and he did not take kindly to his friend being threatened. He cut the wheel in a spin, “See if you can get a hold of a Dr. Sarah Sawyer, she’s John’s boss and I’m betting she’d be the one who sent Sherlock the message.”

Mycroft nodded and fished his phone out of his pocket and pressed one button. “Anthea, connect me to Sarah Sawyer at John’s Surgery. If she’s in a call break it, I need to reach her.” Mycroft waited, knowing that his assistant would get the job done; after all it was what she was hired to do. It wasn’t long until he had another female voice on the line. “Dr Sawyer, my name is Mycroft Holmes; I’m with DI Lestrade of the Yard. What can you tell us about what is going on?” He put the phone on speakerphone so that Greg would be able to hear as well.

The doctor’s voice was low and worried, “Holmes? Sherlock’s brother? The one John says likes to kidnap him? He’s on his way then?”

Greg’s lips had to twitch despite the seriousness of the situation, “Yeah, we all are. Sarah, what’s the situation and the layout of where John is?”

“In his office on the west side of the clinic, second floor, basic four walls two and a half by three meters west and east walls the three, with a water-closet on the north side, door to that is flush against the east wall, John’s got his file cabinet, usual narrow locking beige type, in the south-west corner, handles facing the north-east. His desk is just under the long window on the west wall, the chair’s still pushed into it and there are two visitor’s chairs one meter apart and a half meter from the desk. The door into the office is right in the center of the east wall.” 

Greg nodded at her competent description and it relaxed him a bit as well. She wouldn’t be going into that much detail if John’s situation was completely desperate. “And John?”

“He’s been cuffed to the file cabinet with what looks like old fashioned shackles, he’s got a head injury but it’s not bleeding anymore so the most he’ll have there is a concussion, I haven’t seen any more injuries on him and he’s conscious thanks be to God. The woman in there, she’s got a knife, a thin one with a curve and a sharp point, she keeps rummaging through a case on the desk, pacing, muttering, and running the flat of the knife over her lips. I’d say she’s completely bonkers really.”

“Just to make one thing clear, Dr. Watson has gotten into the car of his own free will on all the occasions we’ve met. Really, I would never do something as plebeian as resort to kidnapping.” Mycroft huffed and twirled the handle of the umbrella resting on the car floor. “Thank you for the detailed rapport though Dr. Sawyer, it can prove very helpful, DI Lestrade will be there soon. Keep out of harm’s way as much as you can.” 

If only John had taken one of the jobs Mycroft had offered him, the man was too talented to spend his days with sniffles and bruises. John Watson was an excellent surgeon, his nerve damage could be worked around and if he’d been at one of Mycroft’s hospitals then the security would have been much higher. The doctor was just as stubborn as his brother though. What would he do with the two of them? Mycroft mentally shook his head.

“The bonkers thing worries me, anything could set her off.” He turned his head and looked at Lestrade. “I do hope dear John keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t antagonize her.”

“The hell with John antagonizing her, he’s the sensible one remember? If adrenaline addiction can be called sensible, and he’s been in situations like this before in Afghanistan. I’m more worried Sherlock will piss her off and she might have a gun. And of course John would have left that illegal Browning I’m not supposed to know about at the flat so Sherlock doesn’t have a gun to point back at the crazy bitch.”

“Of course I don’t have any idea of any handheld illegal firearm you are speaking of. The government would never stand for an army veteran diagnosed with PTSD having an undisclosed and army owned gun in their possession.” Mycroft blinked innocently, keeping a completely straight face. “I share your worry though; my brother is a genius...Except when it comes to John Watson. It is both a blessing and a curse; let’s hope we’ll land on blessing today.”

“Amen to that and it’s too bad the government can’t see its way to giving John a license to carry,” he swung into the surgery’s fire lane, “because if he had a license he could have a clutch piece on him at all times and these sort of incidents might cut down a bit.” With that he was out of the car, glancing at the open door of the car Sherlock had taken here. No Sherlock so he was inside.

And so he was, he passed Sarah and nodded at her, creeping close to peer into the crack in the door. His jaw tightened when he saw the drying blood on John’s face but the doctor’s eyes were open and his face utterly neutral so he was alright and thinking clearly. It was the other person in the room he wasn’t so certain about.

John was actually more pissed than anything else. He was getting rather tired of London’s mentally unstable either drugging him or bopping him over the head before incorporating him into their grand plans. At least he wasn’t wearing any semtex this time around. His head ached and he felt like kicking himself for letting the woman get a drop on him. John still didn’t know why Kallisto had shown up at his clinic, hitting him over the head and shackling him to his own file cabinet. 

Sherlock watched the woman pace and mutter, face distressed and every last aspect of her pointing to some internal conflict. Why? She’d never been conflicted before. He glanced at John. Oh. Oh of course. John didn’t fit any of the infamous people Hera had punished. He slowly pushed the door open, revealing himself to John and Lanning.

John tensed at the sight of Sherlock, eyes going wide before narrowing dangerously. “You bloody idiot, what are you doing here?” John could handle himself but now worry coiled uncomfortably in his gut. He wouldn’t be able to handle anything happening to Sherlock, not now when he had him back, when they finally _were_. John hadn’t figured out just what they were yet but they were. Sherlock was all that was important in his life and now the moron just strolled into the same room as a mad, armed, murdering bitch. 

The murderer spun and held up her knife threateningly, “Not another step.”

Sherlock looked John over more thoroughly as he spoke to Lanning, “You won’t kill me Miss Lanning, nor will you kill John.”

“Oh? Will I not? You think you know better than I do?” Her eyes narrowed on the man who’d nearly caught her last night, who had managed to get her brother to betray her and her grip on the knife tightened in anger.

“No I don’t,” which was a lie of course but Sherlock wasn’t about to risk her lashing out at John because he’d said the wrong thing in arrogance, “but I’ve been paying attention to your tributes. Tiresias, Gerana, and Hercules most recently. They all offended Hera but what has John done?”

Her hand shook and she looked at the man she’d shackled to his file cabinet then started pacing in front of the window again. Her head hurt. She wanted to seek revenge on these two men for interfering but she couldn’t _think_. Her head was so crowded with faces and images and stories and none of them _fit_. 

John stood where he was calmly, his shoulder was beginning to start to ache from being forced into one position but it wasn’t anything to worry about, not when there was a maniac waving a knife around in front of Sherlock. 

“She doesn’t need a reason.” John looked right at her. “She kills because she likes it. And no, she’s not going to kill me, if that was what she wanted she could have chosen me back at the pub.”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was warning as the woman spun towards the doctor, her shaking easing. His eyes clearly said ‘I am trying to save your life you idiot so kindly don’t sabotage my efforts.’ 

Kallisto Lanning pressed the blade to John’s throat, “Men, you’re all the same. You think you know everything, think you can do anything you want. You can’t do much tied up.”

Sherlock swallowed and spoke to distract her, “Why them, specifically? The people you chose, there are a lot of people in England who could fit the offenses so why them.”

She looked over her shoulder at him and her head tilted like a curious bird’s before she stepped away from John and faced Sherlock, studying him, “Same circles.”

Sherlock blinked, remembering his deduction of Bill, “Clark a business woman, Brix the government official, and William?”

“Stupid boy, didn’t even remember my voice. Tired old pick-up lines same as he used before he went off to war.”

“You knew them all long before you planned to do any of this.”

She smiled, “Clever cat. So?”

“You’ve only met John once.”

She started shaking and pacing again, stress visible on her face, “Wrong. Wrong. Wrong,” her breathing grew hard, her eyes jerky, “Doesn’t fit.”

“Do you love your brother Miss. Lanning?” John knew he should stay quiet, he knew it but he couldn’t do it. “Is he horrible and awful and bunched together with all us other men? Bill had a sister too, Elisabeth. She loved her brother. As for knowing everything...Lady, I am almost forty years old and I don’t know a thing. Especially when it comes to women, I just stumble my way along from day to day trying to do the right thing and often getting it wrong.”

She hissed then whimpered, “He betrayed me! I have no brother anymore,” she spun and paced more frantically, her hands going up to her head and gripping her hair, knife still clutched so it sheared off a couple of locks, “Always, always protects himself.”

Sherlock listened to her muttering and saw a single tear escape her, his mind whirring at the speed of light, “Was it your father or one of his associates?”

She turned and stared at him, eyes wild and none too sane, “What?”

“That assaulted you, your father or one of his associates?”

Her lips parted, “How do you-” She broke off as she saw the Scotland Yard appear behind Sherlock.

“Ms. Lanning, put the knife down,” Lestrade kept his eyes on the very unstable looking woman, “the building’s surrounded, you can’t get out, so just put the knife down and come peacefully.”

“No.” She shook her head, “No, no.”

“Look your brother is already calling a lawyer for you so-”

“He’s no brother of mine!” She snarled it out, face contorting with madness that had been bubbling for years as she shook. Her eyes swept behind the men standing in the doorway and saw the others there and her trembles increased. Nowhere to go. She was trapped.

Sherlock watched as she threw the knife, forcing them to duck, grabbed something from the case then broke out of the window, throwing herself over the sill. Once she was out of the room he was in front of John, working on picking the lock on the shackles, “I am going to kick your arse when we get home John Watson.” His voice was a low murmur.

“You can try.” John’s voice was equally low, keeping their conversation as private as possible with all others in the room. “I was a soldier, I killed people.” He knew that Sherlock would remember the other time he had voiced just those words. His eyes went to the shattered window, knowing that the woman was dead. He probably should feel some sort of pity for whatever had happened to her but he didn’t. No matter what you chose who you wanted to be in life. John had no sympathy for her choices. 

“Oh dear, it looks like your office is wrecked Dr. Watson, as luck will have it my offer still stands.” Mycroft strolled into the room.

“I’m not coming to work for you Mycroft.” John sighed. “It will never happen.”

Lestrade walked over to the window, “Maybe you should, might save my bloody sanity because haring off after Sherlock when you’re in danger is nerve-wracking mate.” He looked out the window, grimacing when he saw that Lanning had hung herself. The paperwork that would be involved in this was going to be hideous. “How’d you know?”

Sherlock freed John’s wrists from the shackles and began rubbing them gently where they’d been abraded, “It doesn’t matter now Lestrade.”

Greg turned to gawk at him. Sherlock giving up a chance to show off? Was the bloody sky falling?

John rolled his stiff shoulder and fought the urge to simply lean against Sherlock’s tall, familiar, comforting form. He looked up at Sherlock’s face. “Thank you for coming, it was an idiotic thing to do but thank you.” John wanted to kiss him but he wasn’t sure how Sherlock wanted to handle whatever it was that they were so he refrained himself, his hand coming up to poke at the wound on his head and hissing when pain shot through his skull.

Mycroft made his way over to Lestrade on silent, soft, handmade leather shoes. “He might be a short little trouble magnet but the good doctor is good for my brother.”

Greg watched Sherlock smack John’s hand away from poking at the head injury and murmur some sort of scold. “Always has been really,” the corner of his mouth kicked up, “I think the first time I saw something other than arrogance and disdain on his face around adults since going clean was when he brought John to the Jennifer Wilson crime scene.”

“If I was less of a pragmatic I might call it soul mates. As it is now, I’ll settle for co-dependence, still it works for them.” One brow was arched as Mycroft watched Sherlock and his doctor having a murmured conversation. 

Lestrade would have snickered except he’d lived through trying to help keep John afloat when Sherlock had been ‘dead’ and it had been gutting to see the doctor like that. “Well I _am_ less pragmatic so I’ll go ahead and say it, they’re soul mates and God help anyone who ever tries to split them up.” He lifted his voice, “Sherlock. Have Sarah fix his head then the two of you go home. I’ll be by in the morning to get the statements.”

Sherlock met Lestrade’s eyes and nodded a thank you before cutting a look over at his brother, “Mycroft, do try not to drive Lestrade out of his mind. He can’t afford to lose any more brain cells.” He pulled John toward the door.

“I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own, no need to pull on me.” John grumbled but followed Sherlock obediently, he wanted to go home and if letting Sarah poke at his scalp would get him home faster then he would suffer through it.

“Do I drive you out of your mind Detective Inspector? And here I was being on by best behavior, no helicopters or untrained men anywhere in sight.” Mycroft eyed the DI curiously. 

Greg was glaring at Sherlock’s back and making silent plots for revenge as he answered absently, “Even your best behavior can be enough to drive someone round the twist sometimes. It depends on which smile you’re using.” He barked at Donovan to get back to work when it looked like she was about to bait Sherlock as usual. He had a feeling that John might actually clock her if she pushed these days.

“Oh it’s part of my disguise, keep people guessing. Shhh, don’t tell anyone.” Mycroft looked vaguely amused. “Really though, when are you going to surround yourself with people even vaguely competent? I’ve seen clowns do a better job while drunk and on fire than your underlings.” His nose wrinkled as he looked at Donovan. 

Now Greg did snicker before remarking with his voice low, “The rest of my men _are_ competent. It’s just the two who hate Sherlock the most that are the problem and I’d toss them out if I could believe you me. Anderson’s always too busy trying to play super-genius detective to actually do his job right and Sally,” he watched her order a few of the men about, “wants the DI position but unless there’s a sudden vacancy she won’t be getting it. Fails her evals every time. I have to watch my back and I shouldn’t have to but the Superintendent likes both Sally and Anderson so I’ve got to watch my mouth as well.”

Mycroft, twirled his umbrella handle again and hummed softly under his breath. “Here’s the thing Detective Inspector. Superintendents can be fired, all of them have at least one skeleton in their closet and ignorant underlings can be transferred. Maybe Sergeant Donovan would benefit from leading her own team...Say in rural Wales?” He leaned closer to Lestrade. “Just let me know when you want me to really blow your mind.” He straightened his waistcoat. “Now I am afraid that I must be off, the silly children at work tend to misbehave when Daddy is gone too long.”

Lestrade watched him saunter away then leaned against the wall, “Jesus,” he closed his eyes and tried to focus enough that he wouldn’t wind up pitching a tent in the middle of the crime scene. He’d like to have Mycroft Holmes blow his mind alright, just not with the machinations he was so good at.

_**~to be continued...~** _


	7. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun._

 **Warning:** _Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually._

**Tales of a Feather.**

**_Chapter Seven._ **

Sherlock hung his coat up and leaned against the door as he watched John walk to their sofa and settle down with a sigh, the bandage Sarah had applied stark against his dark blond hair and warm toned skin. 

“It’s really nothing bad, not even a concussion. The bandage is only there because head wounds bleed a lot, you know that so please stop looking at me as if I might drop at any moment.” John’s voice was nearly pleading. “You know me, made of sturdy stuff I am.” The painkiller Sarah had forced down his throat made him a little bit woozy. 

Sherlock just walked over, sat down, and proceeded to throw a leg over John’s lap as he wrapped his arms around him. “I know.” He didn’t think John would drop at any moment; it was more the memories flashing through his mind that had him watching him like a hawk. Not just of this time but all the others when John’s life had been put in danger, especially the semtex vest.

“I choose this life, want it even so wipe that expression off your face...I would do it again in a heartbeat for you. You lit up my world Sherlock Holmes, colored in all the black and white pages of my life.” This time John gave in to his want and leaned against Sherlock. “I’m sorry if I am crossing into soppy here...I think I might be a bit doped up...Not good.”

“Don’t be sorry. Sarah said you didn’t have a concussion so you can sleep it off,” he rested his cheek on John’s shoulder, “You watch me the same way you know, after a particularly bad one.”

“I know, I know I do, I’ll keep doing it too.” John raised one hand to play with the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “I suppose I just never want you to worry, least of all about me. It’s a balance, the good with the bad and fuck Sherlock...With everything we’ve been through the good scale tips the scale every time.” 

“I am aware but I’m allowed to cling and worry when it comes close to losing the person who matters the most to me. Just like you get to natter away at me about eating more and getting actual sleep. It’s supposed to be a couple thing I believe,” he pressed a kiss to John’s pulse, chaste and purely affectionate.

“A couple thing...” John felt something warm fill him and his heart sped up of its own volition. “I can live with that, yeah...most definitely.” He snuggled close to Sherlock and felt his eyelids grow heavier as the effect of the painkillers spread throughout his system.

“Good because you know how possessive and stubborn I am and I am not letting you go.” He pitched his voice almost as soft as a whisper but not quite. He wrapped himself more securely around John as if to demonstrate.

John smiled and snuggled closer in return, loving the warmth and comfort that came with having Sherlock so close. “I can be stubborn too and the possessiveness goes both ways. You are mine now Sherlock and I definitely plan on keeping you.”

Sherlock made a happy hum and nuzzled his face into the crook of John’s neck. It was an interesting reaction the way wrapping John in himself made _him_ feel...safe, safe enough that he relaxed to start drifting into sleep, “No protest.”

Still smiling, John let out a very content sigh, pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s curly head and felt himself drifting off, painkillers or not, John knew that the man wrapped around him would be the reason no nightmares would touch him during this sleep.

**oOoOoOo**

Lestrade watched Ben Lanning rush away from where he’d been apologizing to John and Sherlock, devastation written plainly across his face and he walked up as John began scolding Sherlock, who looked not the least bit repentant.

“It was true John, he’s nine years older, it was his job to protect her from their father’s unsavory associates but he couldn’t be bothered to even call the police.”

Greg’s brow lifted at the quiet undercurrent of disdain and pure loathing that Sherlock’s tone held and he paused in his step toward them.

John stilled and turned to face Sherlock. “Sherlock, do I have a reason to leave Mycroft with more than a broken face?” His voice was utterly serious. “You can’t always count on your older siblings, god knows Harry has never come through but is this more than that?”

Even from where he was standing Lestrade could see the muscle tick in Sherlock’s jaw and half expected him to snap at John. That’s why he frowned in concern when he spoke softly and without any sort of the usual Sherlock acid when someone pried.

“We’ll talk at home? Please John.”

The please was accompanied by a flicker of expression that Greg had seen a few too many times back when he was a constable and had to work domestic disturbances for a year. He didn’t wait any longer to finish walking to them, no point really. If Sherlock stirred himself to say please sincerely then John would always agree. Greg handed Sherlock a folder, “To cover all our arses that’s the paperwork you need to complete for the consultation on this case. Don’t argue, I don’t care if you think paperwork is the devil, I’ve got mounds of it still on my desk from the stunts you’ve pulled since I met you so either you fill out the consultant forms after each case or no more cases from me got it?”

Sherlock pouted but took the folder, “No wonder there are barely any competent people in Scotland Yard, you’ve all rotted your brains with minutae and paperwork.”

John stayed quiet, grateful that Lestrade was just Lestrade and for the tact he displayed here. Something was wrong with his Sherlock and it made John sick to think about it. Sherlock was right though, this was not the place to discuss such things. “I hope you won’t mind getting the paperwork back cluttered with all kinds of experiment ideas and results. Sherlock here writes on everything and anything. when the mood strikes.” John smiled at his boyfriend and wasn’t that the most wonderful word in the world. It didn’t cover all that they were but it came closest. 

“So long as the right spaces are filled with the right answers I don’t care. Now get out of my bullpen. I have files to deliver and then, thank God, I’ve got an entire twenty-four hours off to get pissed, sleep like the dead, and sober up. Stay out of trouble; I don’t care how you do it, just stay out of trouble for one day. Even you should be able to manage one day without blowing something up Sherlock.” 

“I’ve not yet blown anything up Lestrade, burned a few things down, spilled a little hydrofluoric acid, but no explosions as of yet.” Sherlock quirked a brow at him.

“God I don’t want to know. Just go will you?” 

“Fine,” Sherlock turned and flounced off, coat billowing behind him.

Greg shook his head as John rushed after the pain in their collective arses then grabbed the files he needed to deliver under one arm. With his other hand he pulled out his phone to text Mycroft. ‘Just learned something I want to talk to you about. Pick a place with alcohol that I can afford to meet. -GL’

The reply was swift. ‘I’m sorry but old McDougal does not sell Moonshine out of the trunk of his car any longer, I know that was all in your price range in this city - M’

Another text followed quickly. ‘Bellamy Bar, 8 pm -M’

Greg momentarily lamented the fact that you couldn’t flip someone off in a text message before replying that he’d be there then putting his phone away to finish up the ‘minutiae’ of the day.

Time flew and soon enough he was waiting in a private corner in an affordably posh bar, sipping sparingly at a pint. He’d break out the order for hard liquor later but for now he wanted his wits about him.

Eight pm on the dot, Mycroft strode into the pub, eyes already fixed on the corner where Greg Lestrade said, he walked over and sat down, hanging his umbrella on the back of his chair. “Good evening Detective Inspector, I have to admit that you have made me curious, as I was summoned, so have I come.”

“Evening, you have a title or should I just call you Evil Overlord?” Greg shook his head, “You might want to get a drink before I go in to this.”

“Alcohol muddles the mind.” Mycroft still managed to snag a waiter in record time and soon there was a glass of red wine in front of him. “Evil Overlord works I suppose but let’s keep that title under wraps shall we, Mycroft works.” Mycroft didn’t know why he was here and it made him unsettled, he was usually on top of everything. 

“Not too sure EO works since evil overlords are stupid as a rule,” Greg sipped his pint then set it down, “Sherlock had a...unique reaction to Ben Lanning when he and John came in to give their statements today. Unique enough that, after he and John talk, I have a feeling a fully functioning lab in 221c won’t keep John from clocking you.” He met Mycroft’s gaze steadily, “Was it beatings or worse?”

Mycroft’s face was completely blank, not even a hint of emotion showing. His stance was still elegantly relaxed in his seat and the wineglass stood untouched on the table in front of him. “I imagine that if Sherlock wants you to know DI Lestrade, then he will tell you himself.” Mycroft lived his life largely without shame, his line of work demanded it and it wasn’t a bother to him. Sherlock’s childhood and what had happened to him still made him ashamed.   
He had closed his eyes and turned away from the things happening in their house. Their father had never laid a hand on him, that he did abuse Sherlock was something he wanted to pretend didn’t happen, after all it didn’t make sense and Mycroft very much liked everything to make sense. 

“Even if he wanted to tell me he wouldn’t and you know it. I’m asking because I need to know what cases I need to keep a weather eye on Sherlock during as well as warning John.” Not to mention he needed to know which ones to keep the tightest leash on Donovan and Anderson for. “He’s my friend, odd as that seems sometimes, and I can’t help look after him if I don’t know what needs the most looking after.”

“I was seven when Sherlock was born, I don’t think my parents had planned on anymore children and Sherlock came a long as a bit of an accident. Sherlock was a beautiful baby, all dark curls, plump cheeks and huge eyes.” A shadow of a smile played on Mycroft’s lips as he recalled baby Sherlock. “Then something shifted, our father changed.” Privately Mycroft suspected that their father hadn’t believed that Sherlock was his child. “Sherlock has never been able to hide his intellect or the way he sees the world and the things in it. He feels everything so strongly, always has. Father was not...Appreciative of Sherlock’s skills. It started with slaps and quickly went downhill from there. If Sherlock had said something that Father didn’t like during the day he was sent to bed without dinner. Father could wake him up in the middle of the night just to shout at him.”

Mycroft looked down at his wine. “I didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to believe it was happening. Father never struck me; I didn’t exist in his world except for being the one to carry forth the Holmes legacy. I wanted out and I got out the first chance I got. I left and I left Sherlock behind. So there you have your story.”

Greg closed his eyes and shook his head, “That explains a lot about Sherlock,” he looked at Mycroft, “and explains why you go all arse-backwards when you try to protect him. You just don’t know the right way to go about it. You shouldn’t feel so guilty, it’s normal for abused children to just want to run away as soon as they can.” He met the glare Mycroft gave him and continued, interrupting him when he would have spoken, “Don’t try, you were abused too. Not beaten but not cared for and you saw what happened to Sherlock and you had to wonder if you stepped even a toe out of line if you’d face the same. Mental and emotional abuse still counts as abuse.” He wasn’t speaking with pity or sympathy, just pragmatic honesty. He knew Mycroft wouldn’t want pity or sympathy; his pride wouldn’t stand for it. Privately though he’d like to find the Holmes patriarch and punch him in the face until he went unconscious, break his jaw maybe. “You were a normal kid...somehow that’s a scary thought.”

“Normal, well that’s something I’ve never been accused of being before.” Mycroft looked puzzled, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should be offended or not. “I’m afraid I will always feel guilty though, I did leave for boarding school as quickly as I could and neither Sherlock nor I will ever truly be able to move past that. Sherlock has had a lot of time to build up his shell, his sociopath persona...Thank god for John H Watson. I can’t protect Sherlock the way I should but John can. He can protect and love him as he deserves.” 

“I’ll drink to that. Someone should set up a bloody shrine to Mike Stamford for introducing them.”

“I am not going to argue with that.” Mycroft took a sip of his wine and wasn’t able to completely repress his shudder of disgust. You got what you paid for and this could not be called real wine in any sense of the word. “Don’t sell yourself short though, you have had a greater impact and influence on Sherlock than you might believe. He respects you, cleaned himself up for you and the chance to work with you on your crime scenes. He likes you.”

“I know that. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t rescue someone from a bar, listen to them whine like a kid who’s been told no to getting a lolly, and help them home unless he likes them.” He drank some more of his pint.

“That is true.” Mycroft watched Lestrade with curiosity and maybe something more that he wasn’t ready to own up to. Caring was not an advantage. “I will only say this once and if I’m ever called on it I will firmly blame this swill called the house red. Thank you for looking out for my little brother, for honestly caring about him. You are an admirable man.”

A rush that had nothing to do with alcohol went through him and Greg had to pull hard on the choke chain of his attraction to Mycroft. “What do they put in their wine because if it’s got you saying that after only a few sips then it’s got to be enough to knock and Irishman on his arse after one glass. Thank you though.”

“I told you, alcohol muddles the mind, that does not make what I said untrue though.” Mycroft was a lightweight of the highest degree and so he very seldom touched alcohol, he couldn’t afford to not be on top of his game. 

“Oh I believe you. It’s just you admitting to anything like that is equivalent to Sherlock being nice to Anderson, an event so rare that you’ve a better chance of seeing a unicorn.” He smirked and set his empty pint glass down, catching the waiter’s attention and ordering a bottle of Scotch and a glass, “Considering that unicorns are mythical...”

“Cut one horn off of a cow and you have a unicorn. Myths are overrated, reality is much more exciting.” Mycroft was grinning, not smirking until he realized what he was doing and quickly straightened his features to their normal mask again.

Greg’s eyes lit up at the sight of that and he poured himself a glass of Scotch, “Oh now you should do that more often. Looks good on you.”

“I assure you that I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” The scariest thing was that he almost felt the urge to grin again, just to see that expression on the DI’s face. Oh this man was dangerous, very dangerous indeed.

“Liar,” Lestrade grinned himself as he said it, “I’ve been wondering something, do you have me bugged anywhere? I'd like to know when or if I’m giving people an eyeful.”

“Of course I have you bugged; you are one of Sherlock’s important people.” There was no embarrassment about admitting to bugging one of Scotland Yard’s officers. “Don’t worry though, audio only so nothing to worry about.”

His grin took on a mischievous edge, “Never said I was worried. Just wondered if it would be for more benefit than just mine to dance my clothes off, give your peepers more incentive than just getting paid.” He wasn’t ashamed of his body, he knew he had a good one that people liked to look at and he didn’t see reason to be modest about it.

“Dance your clothes off as much as you like, unless you sing out of tune while doing it no one will see.” Mycroft’s mouth was going dry though at the thought of seeing the skin hidden under Greg Lestrade’s clothes. He reached out and downed the rest of the wine in his glass and instantly regretted it as the world tilted a little, it felt good though.

The Scotch was already teasing out Greg’s playful side because he grinned wider, “Nah, I save the singing for the shower, better acoustics. And I’ve a very good singing voice I’ll have you know.”

“Oh I don’t doubt it, you might have to show me sometime.” Mycroft blinked. “The singing voice I mean, not the showering.”

“I might just do that, to either,” Greg finished his first Scotch and poured another one, “So, does Mycroft Holmes have any hidden talents?”

“Plenty of them. If I told you about them they wouldn’t be hidden now they would they?” Mycroft leaned back in his chair a little, still keeping his gaze on Lestrade. 

“Hmm, should I guess then?” Greg tilted his head, “Ventriloquism?”

“If I was into puppets then I would be the person on top of the stage pulling their strings. That’s a no by the way.” He fell silent. “Any other guesses?”

“Hmm, I’m tempted to be ridiculous,” Greg chuckled, “but let me see. I think you might do something with your hands, something musical. You’ve got the fingers for it, long, narrow, tapered, piano hands my Gran would say.” He reach across the table without asking and took Mycroft’s dominant hand into his, running his fingers along the palm and insides of Mycroft’s fingers, “You’ve got callouses here,” his index finger traced along the space between thumb and for finger, “Not thick, a constant rub but one that you take care to protect yourself from.” His brow furrowed in thought, “Horseback riding?”

“Um...Yes, yes, I do enjoy horseback riding. We still have horses at Mummy’s house.” Mycroft couldn’t recall the last time he had stumbled over his own tongue, it just didn’t happen, he was better than that. Something about Greg touching him though caused his mind to short circuit. He would blame it on the wine. “You were also right about the piano, I play a little. Are you sure you need Sherlock on your cases? You seem quite skilled at deducing things for yourself.”

“I get things after a little while,” Greg released Mycroft’s hand though he’d have rather held on until Mycroft pulled away, “but usually only after hours or even days going over the same things over and over again. I’m a trained observer, a DI has to be, but Sherlock, it comes naturally to him. His observational skills are like a shark and swimming. I’m more like a dog or cat, toss me in the water and I have to go by instinct but I get there before I drown.”

“I see, so have you spent time observing me then?” A single arched brow rose and Mycroft curled his hand closed, still feeling Lestrade’s touch there. 

“Maybe,” Greg sipped at his scotch, “And if I have?”

“Well, then I suppose I have to congratulate you on a semi decent deduction.” Mycroft crossed one leg over the other in his seat.

Greg chuckled, “Oh I have more. Think I’ll keep them to myself though.” 

“Please do, I am a man of mystery after all.” Mycroft’s gaze turned speculative. “I’ll give you this though as a parting gift. I danced ballet until I was seventeen...I bend in every way possible for a human being.” 

And just like that Greg was suddenly, painfully hard. He swallowed and tossed back his scotch desperately. “Tosser,” it was rough and husky in tone though it held no animosity.

“We’ll see, haven’t quite decided whether I shall toss off or not tonight but thank you for the suggestion.” The smirk was back in place as Mycroft rose from his seat. “Have a continued pleasant evening Greg, don’t get too drunk to get home safely.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed, “Since we’re sharing, I will be tossing off tonight so warn your bug operators that they’ll be getting an earful.”

“No bug operators tonight, just me listening...Do give me a show and the scales for me tossing off as well might just tip over in the positive. Night night now Detective Inspector.” Mycroft sauntered out of the bar.

Greg dropped his head in his hands and groaned, asking himself why he found Mycroft attractive for the hundredth time. The mental image of a very bendy Mycroft wanking off was all the answer he needed as well as impetus to pay his tab and head out to find a taxi. Whether Mycroft was actually going to listen or not, he was tossing off tonight and loudly. Either way whoever was listening was going to get one hell of a concert.

_**~to be continued...~** _


	8. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun._

 **Warning:** _Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually._

**Tales of a Feather.**

**_Chapter Eight._ **

Sherlock had put off returning to Baker Street the entire day, running errands, visiting informants, and dropping by Bart’s until he couldn’t get John to indulge him any further. Now he was settled in his chair and listening to John make tea in the kitchen. Giving him time to organize his thoughts for this he knew, not to mention they both found the routine of tea soothing.

John stood in the kitchen watching the tea steep, he would pour his tea first and then let it steep some more for Sherlock who liked his tea stronger. He almost dreaded the upcoming conversation as much as he suspected that Sherlock did. He wanted to be calm and supporting but whenever it comes to anyone hurting Sherlock, it suddenly became very tempting to take his browning out of hiding and use it. 

Finishing the tea, John brought the tea to the living room and placed the cups on the table. Then he walked over to Sherlock and kneeled before his chair. “Sherlock...You know that you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to or feel uncomfortable telling me right? I love you no matter what.”

“Yes I know,” and he did. Just as he knew John deserved to know about this, if only so he could understand the reason behind so many of the things that worried John about him. He shifted and coaxed John into squeezing into the chair beside him, ending up half in the doctor’s lap. He played with John’s fingers, strong, capable of both saving and taking a life, capable of violence but never striking in anger more than once after being pushed beyond the bounds of mortal’s patience, “I was five when it began, just slaps at first, dinner with-held for having a smart mouth. The older I became the harder the beatings and the more erratic. I was eight when Father began storming in to my bedroom to slap me awake and toss me out into the hallway. That was all, just waking me up with a blow and throwing me out of my bedroom, then he’d go back to his study.”

John swallowed loudly, his arms sneaking around Sherlock’s waist, holding him to stop his own hands from trembling in helpless anger. Obviously something had been seriously wrong with Sherlock’s father mentally, you did not treat your child like that otherwise. “Wh-what about the rest of your family? Mycroft and your mother, didn’t they do anything?” He already knew the answer though, his own mother had been a pro at closing her eyes to both her husband’s and her daughter’s drinking problems, no matter how bad they got. It was a coping mechanism but that didn’t make it right.

He shook his head, leaning into John, “Mummy was afraid of him, and a very devout Catholic believing that she must ‘cleve unto her husband’ no matter what. And Mycroft, well he was just a child too...then anyway. The beatings remained simple for a few years, never more than bruising. Then Mycroft turned eighteen,” his brows knit, “Until then I’d thought he was waiting, biding his time until he was old enough to truly help, to do more than try and coach me in proper behavior and sneaking me around out of Father’s way, but he turned eighteen and left.” His head tilted like a confused puppy who’d just been yelled at, “He just left, went to Cambridge and never did anything. He ran away. I was eleven and then things grew worse. The night Mycroft left was the first time one of the beatings bloodied me,” he rubbed at the scar on the side of his mouth, “Breakfast, and lunch if it was not a school day, as well as dinner were withheld for days at a time and the waking in the middle of the night grew more frequent, and violent. After those the butler would be ordered to make me polish the silver or clean the kitchen. Mummy tried to stop it once, grabbed Father’s arm before he brought his riding crop down on my face. She was hospitalized for a week.” 

Helplessness and rage warred inside John, that someone much less his father had treated beautiful, shining, brilliant Sherlock like that made him both want to cry and hunt down those responsible and teach them what pain really was. It explained so much though, of course Sherlock thought of the body as only transport that he saw food and sleep as weaknesses. He had to learn to think like that to cope.

John nuzzled Sherlock’s hair with the tip of his nose before pressing a kiss to the wild locks. “I wish I could have been there for you, wish I could travel in time but know something. You are the strongest person I know. Despite what your father did to you, no matter what his agenda was, you beat him. You grew up amazing, everyone has a few stumbles along the way but you are wonderful Sherlock, wonderful and loved.”

Sherlock’s hand went to John’s neck, rubbing the thumb over his jawline, feeling the stubble prickle, “I never cared about him. I always knew he was in the wrong, I knew it wasn’t natural. Instinct and observation. I didn’t understand why he loathed me so much but I knew he was wrong. It was Mycroft that hurt,” it was a whisper, as if he’d find himself hurt again by speaking of it, “He’d looked after me for eleven years and then he was just...gone and he never came back or did anything to get me and Mummy away. I didn’t understand how he could do that, I still don’t not really. It stopped when I turned sixteen, I made it stop. The only thing that mattered to him was the Holmes name so I used that, I told him that I’d planted cameras throughout the house and that if he didn’t leave, if he didn’t walk away and never contact me, Mummy or Mycroft again, I would make certain that the footage was spread through every circle in Britain and I would call the police to arrest him and it would cause a scandal he would never recover from.” He shifted so that his brow rested against John’s and he could easily look into his eyes, “He left. Went to France and as far as I am aware he remains there. I didn’t see Mycroft again until I was eighteen myself and he came to escort me to Cambridge. It was not a happy reunion.”

“No I can imagine that it wasn’t.” John understood perfectly, Mycroft was the one who was supposed to help, who was supposed to care and he turned a cold shoulder when Sherlock needed him the most, continued to do so in fact. John had no doubt that Mycroft cared about Sherlock but every time Sherlock really needed him something else was more important. “So...Nose, mouth or gut? What would hurt him most?”

Sherlock had to smile, “Leave it. He and I have an...understanding over the past. He’s sorry, not enough to change of course but genuinely regretful. However if you’d like to bash his nose in for the bugs in the flat I am completely in accord. Or we could pretend we saw Lestrade during a decontamination shower on our next case and, while Mycroft is in a meeting he can’t leave, send him texts mentioning Lestrade’s tattoo and piercings.” He brushed his lips over John’s lightly. 

“Mmm,” John hummed into the feather light kiss. “As much as I really want any excuse to punch Mycroft in the face I think the tattoo and piercings would hurt more.” He leaned in to kiss Sherlock again, just as lightly, wanting the connection of skin against skin. 

“Follow it up with a transmission jammer for Lestrade and we will have effectively ruined Mycroft’s day. Always a joy.” He ran his hand down John’s chest and around to his side, feeling a bit touch hungry. “Enough about my brother though. You are infinitely more interesting.”

John was more than willing to let Sherlock touch where ever he wanted to and he followed it up with touches of his own. Nothing erotic or wanting, just loving touches to assure Sherlock that he was treasured and wanted. “Nothing interesting about me but yes, I have you here in my lap and the last thing I want is to think about Mycroft...Or Greg for that matter.”

“You are interesting John. A contradiction of sorts. Like this ‘Three Continents Watson’ thing. I wouldn’t have pegged that considering what I’ve seen of your romantic history.” His fingertips traced over the back of John’s hand and nudged the jumper up his arm.

John made an embarrassed little sound deep in his throat. “That Thee Continents Watson is bull...Mostly and my romantic history since we met...Well it consists of you, who could want anyone else after meeting you? And when I tried to put you out of my thoughts you’d find some way to crash or cut my dates short.” He smiled and caressed the smooth skin of Sherlock’s neck, just beneath his hairline.

Sherlock’s lips curved up and a deep chuckle rumbled in his chest, “It was purposeful.” 

“You know, after a while even I started to suspect that. You rarely do something without purpose after all.” John loved Sherlock’s chuckles and laughter, absolutely loved the sound of them and loved it even more when he could coax those sounds out of him. “You should have known though...I’ve always been yours.”

“I knew. I was not certain you did.” Sherlock rubbed his cheek on John’s shoulder, “You were always so vehement about denying that we were a couple to everyone. I rather thought you didn’t want to be mine.”

“Well you did make it perfectly clear on the very first night that you were not looking for a relationship. Your friendship was more important to me than risking losing you completely if I pushed.” John rubbed his thumb at the soft skin behind Sherlock’s ear.

A stifled giggle escaped him and he reached up to grab John’s hand, “Not there.” He brought John’s hand around to play with his fingers. “I wasn’t certain you would be able to stand me then.”

“Oh ticklish spot...Good to know.” John chuckled. “I was fascinated by you from the first second at Barts. Thought you were completely barmy but fascinating all the same.

Sherlock looked down at John’s hand caught by his, “I’d had people think I was fascinating before, in much the same way they’re fascinated by a beautifully patterned viper in a glass cage at the zoo. I’d mistaken that gawking attention for genuine admiration before. I had to be careful with you because you were...different. No one else had ever told me I was brilliant or that what I could do was amazing, it usually make people uncomfortable, but you just admitted and kept saying it. It made me...happy so I had to be careful not to let you close until I was certain it wasn’t just fleeting interest. You were dangerous for me then.”

“Not a fleeting interest, a lifelong interest and a lasting fascination, not by your massive brain but with the man himself. I love you, for all that you are.” John tightened the arm he had around Sherlock. “You have me Sherlock, you have all of me.”

Sherlock brushed his lips over a stubbled jaw, “You John Watson, are my reason.” His reason for living, not just existing in a haze of cases, nicotine, and the overwhelming flood of data that the slightest new thing could bring into his world.

“And you are mine so that works out just fine, all fine.” Even with his blogging, John was a man of actions rather than words so he tilted his head until he could capture Sherlock’s lips and pour all his emotions into a long, lingering kiss.

Sherlock’s hand tightened on John’s and he pressed as close as he could get. His lips parted underneath John’s in a silent welcome as he returned the kiss with everything his flawed, damaged heart was capable of. 

Shuddering lightly from the pure joy of kissing Sherlock, John deepened the kiss. He slid his tongue over Sherlock, tasting his mouth coaxing it into his own mouth, sucking gently on it. John would never ever, get sick of kissing Sherlock, of holding him close. He broke the kiss just long enough to take a breath. “You did get all the bugs right? The thought of your brother watching us snog, skeeves me out.”

“They’re gone and I’ve got the jammers active in case I missed any,” his lifted a hand to John’s hair, still in that short, military style, and feathered his fingers through it, enjoying the smooth texture. He nuzzled John’s nose with his, affectionately.

“Good.” John let his mouth travel lower, kissing his way down Sherlock’s neck and swirling his tongue in the hollow of his throat, something he’d wanted to do almost since the first moment they met. 

Sherlock shivered. He’d never known his throat was so sensitive, none of his one-offs had taken the time to touch and pet and stroke and kiss anywhere but the required erogenous zones so he was learning new things about his own body with John. His fingers trailed down to trace and pet the skin at the nape of John’s neck then back up through the close cut dirty blond hair as he let his head fall back.

“What you do to me, you have no idea.” John whispered it against Sherlock’s skin as he took Sherlock up on his offer and continued to lave attention on every inch of Sherlock’s neck, kissing, licking and finally biting down, marking that pale gorgeous skin. John wanted to mark Sherlock all over and have Sherlock mark him back. 

The bite had him moaning, arousal flooding him just that quickly as his hand clutched at the back of John’s head. He arched his body then made an undignified squeak he would deny ever even being capable of until the day he died when he nearly tumbled off John’s lap onto the floor. He sat back up, looked over his shoulder at the empty space, then back to John, “Bedroom?”

John looked at Sherlock, eyes blown wide with arousal and lips swollen from kissing along Sherlock’s skin. “Oh god yes.” He was out of the chair as quick as his body and Sherlock would let him and he held his hand out for his lover. “Let’s go.”

Somehow, taking John’s hand felt like so much _more_ than being helped up and out of the chair, like they were exchanging some sort of solemn, unbreakable vow and he couldn’t help but situate his fingers in-between John’s and hold his hand tightly as he was led to his own bedroom. He tilted his head and wondered if they would really need both bedrooms now. He didn’t particularly relish the idea of ever slipping into bed alone again and that’s really all he used his bedroom for, getting dressed and sleeping with occasional storage of a few things. 

“You’re home, my safety. I’ll sleep where ever you are.” John brought their still joined hands up to his mouth to kiss Sherlock’s fingers before stepping closer and capturing Sherlock’s mouth. Even as they kissed, his hands went to Sherlock’s shirt, working each tiny button out of its hole. “Always so many buttons. Drives me crazy.”

“Mmm, we cannot all look edible in fluffy jumpers,” Sherlock nibbled lightly on John’s lips, flicking his tongue out to smooth over them intermittently. His own hands snaked under aforementioned jumper and the undershirt to play his fingers over the muscles in John’s lower back.

John shivered, those beautiful, capable fingers were on his skin. He continued to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt until he could push it off Sherlock’s shoulders. Christ but the man was beautiful. It made John’s mouth dry. His hands splayed over Sherlock’s sides, tracing his ribs, still a little too prominent, feeling warm and silky skin under his fingertips. “Gods I want you.”

Sherlock leaned into his touch with a husky murmur, kissing along his jaw to his earlobe where he began to suck and nibble delicately. “Well I am right here for the having.”

That made John’s eyes flash with heat. “I’ll have you and god fucking hell, what are you doing with my ear?” It made John’s knee’s turn to jelly. He managed to take one step back so he could wrestle his jumper and undershirt over his head. Then he was on Sherlock again, pushing him backwards until he tipped down on the mattress, John following.

Sherlock quite happily pulled John down on top of him, liking the way he felt, not confined or smothered but secured, as the broader body of his lover pressed him into the mattress. His hands stroked down well muscled arms and he traced his fingers over the large scar at the back of John’s left shoulder. John didn’t talk about it but he knew that he’d gotten an infection and, being in the middle of a desert with limited medical facilities, a violent infection had set in and from the back they’d had to cut away more infectious and dead tissue than just the gunshot wound would have left. He’d never liked the thought that he could have lost John before ever knowing him so he pushed it away and craned his neck up to capture John’s mouth with his.

It was strange, John hated people touching his scar, it made him feel self conscious and strange but Sherlock was an exception. It didn’t bother him when Sherlock did it, it felt nice, safe and hot all at the same time. He put his whole being into kissing Sherlock, his hands wandering, caressing and mapping out the beautiful body beneath him. He might be Three Continents Watson but this was new, he’d never felt like this for anyone before. What Sherlock and he were doing was making love and John wanted to treasure it, even as his body burned.

He felt the emotion, the feelings driving them to not just rip each other’s clothes off, pound it out and be done with it. He felt the hitch in John’s heart beat and the flutter in his own and the way it tasted sweet on a level that had nothing to do with flavor when he kissed John. He felt it and understood, finally, what made people fall so deep into sentiment, wrap themselves up in it despite the danger. Sherlock would always be of the opinion that for most people sentiment was foolish but for him and John sentiment, and that brain warping emotion called love, was right, made _sense_ because neither of them would leave the other. One might die but they would never leave. 

He angled his head and went back to mouthing John’s ear, his hands leisurely exploring the doctor’s skin, and one long, slim leg lifting to hitch over John’s hip.

This was crazy, they were both still half dressed, hell they both still had their shoes on and John still felt more naked, more exposed than ever before. In a good way though, Sherlock knew him inside and out, all the nice things and all the ugly ones too. There was no reason to hide, to pretend, they belonged to each other, accepted and loved the other precisely for who they were. It humbled John to the core. He bucked into the cradle of Sherlock’s hips and moaned into their kisses as he felt an answering hardness against his own aching erection. This was wonderful, glorious even but it wasn’t enough. John craved more, he wanted _everything_

He reached between them and struggled with the fastenings on Sherlock’s trousers, pausing to look into Sherlock’s eyes. “Is this okay? Not moving too fast am I?”

“No, you’re not,” Sherlock licked his lips at the heat in John’s eyes and felt his body flush with the desire to be pressed skin to skin against him, _everywhere_ , “In point of fact you are not moving fast enough.”He wiggled his hips, cuing John to get back to what he’d been doing.

John tackled Sherlock’s trousers with renewed confidence, managing to wrestle them open and down, Sherlock’s legs. He grabbed Sherlock’s pants next, wanting the other man amazingly naked in front of him. “God fucking Christ you are beautiful, every single inch of you.” John’s voice was rough and hoarse, needy with want. He crawled down the bed and picked up Sherlock’s left foot, he leaned down and swiped his tongue over the inside of Sherlock’s ankle in long cat like strokes. “I want to taste you all over.”

Sherlock felt his mind stutter and his toes twitched at the slight roughness of John’s tongue on the tender skin of his ankle. He arched his back in a long, lazy stretch that he knew showed off his body, especially when John’s eyes darkened further. He gave his lover a sensual smile, “Then do. Anything you want John.”

“Fuck.” It came out only as a sharp exhale but it was all John could manage at the moment. Sherlock knocked the breath right out of him. He went back to licking Sherlock’s ankle, following the slope of his calf and tasting the back of his knee, moaning at the slightly salty taste of Sherlock’s skin. Once John had made it to a soft inner thigh, he bit down and sucked a vivid, purple mark before going back to lift Sherlock’s other foot and start all over again.

Sherlock actually whimpered with desire at the bite, feeling his cock react with a slight twitch and a slight touch of cold where precome was dribbling from the tip down the shaft. He shivered feeling John’s lips and tongue work their way up his other leg and sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, moaning when John teased the skin at the back of his knee.

John was so hard he ached but he wasn’t about to rush things, it was amazing hearing the sounds he could coax out of Sherlock, to see his reactions. He swirled his tongue over the soft skin at the back of Sherlock’s knee some more before moving upward and once again finding himself facing a long, pale inner thigh. This time he placed a series of bites up the thigh before blowing cool air over Sherlock’s erection. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning down and swiping his tongue over the leaking head, tasting Sherlock before moving up to lick and taste the skin over Sherlock’s trembling stomach.

“Jesus. God. _John_ ,” it was a soft whine, a pleading for more and a voice to frustration when John chose to ply his tongue teasingly around his navel instead of biting or mouthing a more common erogenous zone. Not that it didn’t feel good because by all that was holy it did. John drove him out of his mind so damned easily until nothing existed but this, nothing but them. he levered himself up onto an elbow, his other hand going down to play fingers over what he could reach of John, lips twitching when he found spots that made his lover grunt and twitch and lean into him.

Oh god, it really should be illegal for a touch to feel that good. John wanted to give into the sensation of Sherlock’s touches but he couldn’t. He had promised himself to show Sherlock just how much he loved every part of him and John Watson was nothing if not dedicated. He reached out and caught the hand touching him, sitting up on his knees still holding it. John locked eyes with Sherlock and sucked one long tapered finger into his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue around the digit before moving on to the next and the next. 

A groan rumbled in Sherlock’s chest as he watched John’s mouth close around each of his fingers in turn, felt his tongue against the sensitive skin, and met a dark blue gaze so heated and piercing that he felt it down to his core. His own tongue flicked out and ran over his lips, “You are decidedly overdressed John Watson.”

John raised an eyebrow and wiggled his hips where he stood on his knees even as he licked a broad stripe up Sherlock’s under arm to mouth at the inside of his elbow. “You think so? What should I do about it then?” A sucking bite was placed on the inside of Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock grabbed the back of John’s head and yanked him forward for a nipping, heated kiss, “Naked, now.” His hand smoothed down John’s side then over his stomach, humming happily at the muscles that jumped under his touch, to pluck at the button on John’s trousers, intent on getting his doctor as naked as he was.

Even as aroused as he was, John couldn’t help but chuckle into the kiss. His hands traveled down to help Sherlock get his trousers undone and off as quickly as possible. Once they were bunched around his knees he struggled and kicked until he could finally fling them down to the floor somewhere, John really didn’t care where they ended up at this moment. Naked he crawled over Sherlock intent on having their skin press together as much as possible, he wanted to feel Sherlock against him, everywhere. 

It was with a happy moan that Sherlock pressed up against John, arms going around him and legs twining together. He felt the heat of John’s skin seeping into him, warming him. He slipped his tongue into John’s mouth and slid his tongue against John’s in a slow, lazy dance. 

John kissed back, deep and slow and perfect, his hands traveling over every inch of skin they could reach, stroking a sharp hipbone, smoothing over an arm. He wanted to melt inside Sherlock, become one so that nothing and no one could ever part them again. Their erections brushed together, making John moan into Sherlock’s mouth. “Gods Sherlock, I want to be inside you.”

He shivered and nipped at John’s bottom lip, “Good. We’re in accord because I want you inside me John. I want you inside me badly.” He licked and kiss and sucked his way along his jaw to his ear, purring into it, “I want you to spread me open, to stretch me with your fingers, to make me whine and moan and drive me out of my mind until we’re both gagging for it. Then I want you to push your cock into me, long and slow, filling me up and going so deep I can barely remember my own name and the only thing there’s room in my head for is yours.” He licked the shell of John’s ear and whispered, “Make me scream your name John.”

The broken sound that came from John at those words could have been anything, John looked at Sherlock with wild eyes. “Lube?” He wanted to make Sherlock’s words true, wanted to make him scream but he wouldn’t hurt him, any scream that came from Sherlock would be of pleasure. 

Sherlock reluctantly released one arm’s hold on John to reach up under one of his pillow and grab a bottle of basic lubricant. He’d never had reason for any of the flavored, scented, or extra sensory ones, not when he used it only to wank. Now though he might look into the more sensually adventurous ones, coax John into experimenting with him using them. For now though this was good, was right. It was only them and what was necessary to make it good, the bare essentials and that was how it should be for this first time.

John took the bottle and kissed Sherlock again before reluctantly pulling away so that he could flip the lid open and lube up his fingers. Fuck he was nervous, he didn’t want to hurt Sherlock but he couldn’t wait to be inside him either. John slid between Sherlock’s legs and coaxed them open wider, giving Sherlock’s hard cock a few strokes with his lubed up hand before moving lower, circling and teasing at his hole, not entering just yet. All the while he leaned forward so that he could keep kissing Sherlock.

Sherlock bent his knees and planted his feet on the bed so he could angle his hips and make it easier for John to get at him. He could taste John’s nervousness in the kiss and felt a strong wave of affection over it. This was his John, so worried while he was so eager to have John inside him, to continue this intense dance between them. He sucked on John’s bottom lip, reveling in the taste of him, and groaned as those capable fingers teased him. He didn’t pull and try to rush John, they didn’t need to rush and though he wanted John inside him he was also enjoying the attentions he was receiving now.

Once he was sure that Sherlock was familiar with his fingers and that he was familiar having his fingers there, John eased one digit inside Sherlock. It was all clinging heat and tightness and John gasped into Sherlock’s mouth. He could feel his cock hardening further if possible at the thought that he would be in that sweet tightness soon enough. John kept it slow and easy, keeping it just one finger for now as he slowly and gently began to move it in and out.

A soft, almost moan came from Sherlock, rising from his throat into John’s mouth. It was...not uncomfortable but a bit strange, the intrusion, it had been ages since he’d even used his own fingers on his arse. It didn’t take long for his to more than discount the oddity, the gentle press and withdrawal of the digit dragging on the sensitive skin ringing the entrance to his body sparking deeper, hotter desires and pleasures within him. 

He slid his hands down and around to stroke over John’s chest, fingers going unerringly to the hard points of his nipples to pinch and tweak them lightly. He wanted to return the pleasure he was getting. Being a passive participant was not in his nature.

John gave a full body shudder and bit down on Sherlock’s upper lip. His nipples had always been very sensitive but few had taken the time to actually touch and tweak the way Sherlock did. It drove him insane and he could feel his cock twitch and leak some precome on Sherlock’s hip. He added another finger, still keeping it gentle as he moved and stretched. He curled his fingers and sought out Sherlock’s prostate, using both fingers to rub over the gland.

Sherlock gave a sharp cry into John’s mouth, sparks shivering through his entire system as John massaged his prostate. His hands tensed unconsciously, nails digging into the skin of John’s pectorals, and he pushed back onto the fingers stretching him out little by little.

Spurred on by Sherlock’s cry, john flicked his tongue against Sherlock’s and scissored his fingers, getting a little more serious about the stretching. He came back to run his fingers over the prostate though, making sure that pleasure would override any discomfort. Adding some more lubricant, John finally added a third finger, groaning at the tightness around his digits.

He sucked in a sharp breath. Now that was a bit uncomfortable but it barely registered as John’s mouth was suddenly nipping along his throat. He leaned his head back further, his hands once more playing with John’s nipples, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips when that made John bite just a little harder. He shifted a bit, pressing down on John’s fingers and shivering with a moan when they brushed against his prostate once more.

John had fancied himself in love before, he had certainly been in lust and he’d had some pretty good sex in his life but nothing had been this _honest_ , nothing had ever been this real and it was all due to Sherlock and what they had together. What he felt for Sherlock, it was more than love, John didn’t have a word for what they were but Sherlock was essential, like air. “Think you’re ready?” John wasn’t sure he could wait much longer without coming just from fingering Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock dipped and tilted his head so he could press a soft kiss to John’s jaw. One hand reached up again, this time into the bedside table, and pulled out a box that he shook open, retrieving a foil packet that he pressed into John’s hand. He nuzzled his military doctor’s cheek, “I know you’re clean, I hacked the e-mail with your last test results, but I don’t know about me. I’ve not...in a long time but the things we sometimes wade through, you never know and I dislike hospitals so I’ve not been tested since I came back.”

“I don’t know why I even have a password for my e-mail any longer, you read my mail before I do.” John grinned though and took the condom, it was good, smart thinking to be safe. He tore the foil packet and rolled the condom onto his erection, reaching for the lube bottle again, a little extra lubrication wouldn’t hurt, especially since it was their first time together. “Tell me if it gets too much, I will back off...promise.” John settled in the cradle of Sherlock’s hips began to ease himself inside, biting his own bottom lip hard to remind himself that he couldn’t just slam in no matter how much he wanted to.

As if he’d be fool enough to tell John to stop. Sherlock gasped a bit as the head of John’s erection pressed slowly past his stretched hole, it was a burn, not exactly painful but not really pleasant and it was exactly what he wanted. He shifted just a bit and wrapped his legs around John’s hips, reaching up to pull his face down for a kiss. He moaned as more of John’s cock slipped into him, slowly filling him up, stretching him wide. It was overwhelming and made his hands shake and it was perfect.

John was shaking by the time he was all the way inside and his balls rested against the curve of Sherlock’s arse. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before in all his years, so hot, so tight and so amazing just because this was Sherlock. Sherlock who was everything he wanted and everything he would ever want and need. Hell Sherlock had for all intent and purpose died and John hadn’t stopped needing him then. Just having been given the miracle to get his Sherlock back, to have him wrapped around him like this almost brought John to tears. He held still in an attempt to give Sherlock time to adjust, spending that time kissing his lover, nipping at his jaw and placing more marks on his neck, poor Sherlock would look like a spotted leopard after this...John couldn’t make himself feel sorry about that though.

Sherlock certainly wasn’t sorry each time he felt another mark placed on his skin, far from it in fact. He had plans to shamelessly display those marks tomorrow. For now however he was more than content to lose himself to the sensations, to being covered and filled by John. After he felt himself relax he wiggled his hips and purred into John’s ear. “Move, come on John, move in me.” His hands slid down John’s back and then back up, drawing the nails lightly over the skin.

The feeling of those nails on his skin and even more the sound of Sherlock’s low voice purring in his ear pushed John into action and he eased out only to push back in. Short, gentle strokes to begin with but when he didn’t notice any discomfort in Sherlock he sped up, putting more force behind each push. It felt so fucking good, John actually saw stars before his eyes, he thought that only happened in Mills and Boons novels. 

The burn faded away into nothing as pleasure overtook him with every push of John’s hips and soon Sherlock was angling his own hips to meet each long slide. Moans, pants and occasional soft, pleasured cries broke from his throat and his finger dug into John’s shoulders, his short trimmed nails digging in. He leaned his head up and caught John’s mouth once more, putting everything he was feeling into it.

That slight nip of pain only heightened John’s pleasure and he rolled his hips quicker. He kissed Sherlock as if he was trying to suck his soul out of his mouth before pulling away, panting harshly. “Come on Sherlock, touch yourself for me. Let me see it, please.”

Sherlock moaned, both with the loss of John’s mouth on his and at the rough plea that went right down his spine. He slid his hand between them, eyes on John’s face, the expressions flickering over his features making him shiver in lust. His fingers curled around his cock and he pulled on it gently then slid his hand up and down in time with John’s thrusts. His voice was a husky purr when he spoke, “Is this what you wanted John? To watch me stroke myself each time you push into me and fill me up? To see just how much you affect me? To the point that I’m leaking continuously from how good you’re making me feel?”

“Yes, fuck yes...Just look at you, so gorgeous, especially leaking like that. And the way you tighten around me every time you stroke your prick like that, Gods make me feel like I’m going to pop any second.” John kissed that naughty, brilliant mouth again as he thrust even harder, his strokes becoming erratic as he came closer to coming, there was no way he would be able to hold out for long. Not with Sherlock so hot, so wanton and beautiful.

“Yes,” it was breathless, “oh God yes John.” He shivered and cried out as a change in angle had John’s next thrust hitting his prostate directly and brought him so close to the edge that he could feel it tightening and creeping up his spine. “So good inside me, so perfect. Make me come John, make me come screaming your name. Please love please, please, please.” He panted and strained, wanting that extra push over the edge, wanting to feel the fire in his blood consume him, wanting to fall because he knew John would catch him and hold him safe.

John’s heart was pounding in his chest, both from pleasure and from the words Sherlock said. Those pretty pleas setting him on fire. He made sure to hit Sherlock’s prostate with every stroke, bracing his toes against the mattress to get more force in his thrusts. It still wasn’t enough, he hooked his arms under Sherlock’s knees and pushed them up against Sherlock’s chest, trying to sink even deeper, push harder. Sherlock was still stroking himself and John was losing it, he curled one of Sherlock’s legs around his waist and reached down to help Sherlock, gripping and stroking and thrusting. Then he leaned down and licked the sweat off Sherlock’s collarbone before biting down...hard.

“JOHN!” Sherlock’s back bowed so hard he almost threw John off as he screamed out loudly enough that the next door neighbors probably heard and he did not care. He could care because that bite sent a shockwave of heat through him so intense that he was coming between one heartbeat and the next. He felt his semen spurt out in hard jets, splattering on his and John’s stomachs but his focus was on John and on the mind emptying ecstasy that had his vision going to white so there was nothing to do but feel and get swept away.

“Oh Christ, of bloody, buggering Christ you gorgeous thing...” John couldn’t take his eyes off of Sherlock as he thrust sharply a few more times, feeling Sherlock still rippling around him as his hips stuttered and he came into the condom with a low growling groan of some kind.   
Most of all John just wanted to slump down on top of Sherlock and hopefully get his breath back but he’d heard enough horror stories at the clinic about condoms slipping off and getting stuck in places you most definitely didn’t want them so he pulled out, took the condom off, tied it off and dropped it on the floor. He got a hold of his undershirt and used it to clean Sherlock off sloppily before finally dropping down on top of him, finding his lips for a kiss and then two and three. “I love you.”

Sherlock swore that every last millimeter of him was buzzing inside and out so his response was a bit below his normal wit as he slid boneless arms around John and nuzzled into the kisses in return. He held John on top of him, liking the security of his weight still pressing him into the mattress. “Reciprocated.” Someday he’d manage to actually say the real words, someday when a lifetime of conditioning against them was reached past, but for now he could let John know in other words that his feelings were returned, let him know in actions they were returned fervently.

John continued to press soft kisses on Sherlock’s lips, on each of those deadly cheekbones, on his chin and his eyelids and earlobes. Every kiss a declaration of love, of adoration and of forever. John didn’t need Sherlock’s words, not when he knew that he had been given Sherlock’s heard for safe keeping and he would keep it safe, treasure it and protect it with everything in him.

_**~to be continued...~** _


	9. Chapter Nine

**Warning:** _Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually._

**Tales of a Feather.**

**_Chapter Nine._ **

Greg looked up from the bane of all sane men, paperwork, and blinked at an infuriated Sally Donovan who was standing in the doorway looking like some sort of demented marmoset who’d had a treat stolen away from it. “Is there a problem Sergeant Donovan?”

“Yes Sir, a bloody big problem...I’m sure the freak has something to do with this, somehow it has him written all over it.” She walked across the floor and slammed a paper down in front of Lestrade. “Did you know about this Sir? I’ve been transferred, effective immediately. To buggering East End. I’ve worked my bloody arse off for this division, for you Sir. It’s not fair.” Sally was aware that she was out of line, that Lestrade was her commanding officer but she was so pissed, so disappointed. 

Greg looked down at the paperwork and managed, heroically, to keep the amusement off his face as he remembered Mycroft mentioning something about underlings being transferred. This had his sticky fingers all over it. He lifted his eyes back to hers, “Donovan if I put in for you to be transferred you’d have known it long before it went through and Sherlock enjoys pissing you off too much to have arranged this. But to answer your question, no I didn’t know. Who’ve you mouthed off to recently?”

“No one Sir, been on my best behavior. Only one who’s even annoyed me is the freak and if he enjoys pissing me off then this would be bloody Christmas for him now wouldn’t it?” Sally was livid, she would never get anywhere career wise, being stuck in the East End. Drug heads and hookers, that would be her future and with her luck Sherlock fucking Holmes would find a way to stick it to her there as well. 

“Might be for him yeah,” Lestrade didn’t bother to pull the punch. It had been weeks since the end of the Lanning case and though they’d brought Sherlock in on a couple of cases Sally had still been on him about his lack of reaction to the victims as well as making her disgust with the hickies Sherlock showed off smugly very, very clear. It was a good thing she was being transferred because he had a feeling that soon she’d go far enough over the line nipping at Sherlock that John actually clocked her. “Sorry to hear about this though Sally. You’ll be missed.” In the back if his head Greg could hear an echoing _’Not!’_ as well as his id’s gleeful cackling.

“Yeah.” Sally slumped, realizing she wouldn’t get any backing from Lestrade. She had clung to a desperate hope that maybe it had been some sort of horrible misunderstanding and that Lestrade would somehow fix it for her. “You’ve been a good boss considering.” She looked down at her perfectly polished shoes. “Good luck around here, call me if you find yourself floundering yeah.” She plastered on a smile that felt as if it would crack her face and turned to walk out of the DI’s office. She had a locker to clear out.

It took a lot of effort for Greg not to just jump up and do a little dance. He didn’t hate Sally but her ambition and the looks she tossed him when she thought he wasn’t looking, as if she thought he was the one holding her back and not her own flaws, made this a bloody relief. Now he could do his job without worrying about getting stabbed in the back. He pulled out his phone and pondered before composing a text.

‘This was you I know it.- GL’

He sent the text to Mycroft, who he’d not actually seen since the meeting after the Lanning case. He wasn’t sure about whether or not the man actually _noticed_ the very loud wanks Greg had taken to indulging in or if he’d been entertaining some poor sods listening in. He hoped it was the former. Really, really hoped so and that Mycroft would make some sort of fucking move before he either made one himself or wanked himself numb.

‘Consider it an early birthday gift. - M’

‘Oh and look in your top drawer, figure your throat must be sore now from all the shouting, dear me, consider the neighbors. - M.’

Mycroft grinned as he sent the texts. Oh but the detective was amusing and very vocal. It was intriguing. The man was dangerous though, Mycroft had found himself thinking about Gregory Lestrade on several occasions when he had a country...Well actually several countries to run. 

Greg smirked when he read the text and fired off a quick reply. 

‘Hell with the neighbors. My throat’s just fine too though I suppose I might be able to manage a private showing if you’re interested.- GL’

He pursed his lips then followed that one up with a second.

‘And if you’re lucky I’ll show you my tattoo.- GL’

And there his concentration went down the drain along with his blood who also traveled south. The Detective Inspector was a tease, a naughty one at that. Mycroft had spent a large amount of time obsessing about Lestrade’s tattoo, too much time. Same with the piercings, piercings, in plural. No matter how he tried and dug in Lestrade’s background Mycroft hadn’t been able to figure out the surprises underneath Lestrade’s clothes. It was maddening. He let his fingers fly over the keys of his phone.

‘Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’ - M’

“Oh you cheeky bastard,” Greg’s voice was a deep, private growl. He wondered if Mycroft actually had a tattoo or if he was just playing, it would be just the thing the sneaky arse would do.

‘Your place or mine?- GL’

Immediately following that text he sent one to Sherlock.

‘Does M have any tats?- GL’

Of course Sherlock’s reply was lightning fast and made him laugh.

‘Dear God why would you ask me something so revolting? As far as I know, no. Nor do I wish to know. And I’ve been ordered to tell you that should this put me off tonight’s entertainment John will come after you with a cricket bat.- SH’

Mycroft eyed the last text. This was it, was he ready to take the leap? He’d noticed his brother’s happiness with John Watson and he couldn’t help but being a little envious. He wanted that too, that closeness, he just wasn’t sure if he was built for it. Mycroft ran his finger up and down his nose as considered his options...Finally he reached for his phone again and texted Lestrade his home address.

Greg felt a deep sense of triumph when he read Mycroft’s text, replied with the time he’d be over, and then he sent John a quick one. 

‘Should your evening entertainment be less than you hope for you’ll have to beat me to death tomorrow because I’ve entertainment of my own set up. Wait til after and at least I’ll die a happy man.- GL’

 

‘Does this has something to do with Mycroft and tattoos? No don’t tell me, please don’t tell me. Why Greg? Why do you hate the thought of me getting shagged on a regular basis? - JW’

Greg chuckled and sent John apologies, the address of a specialty shop that sold fresh olives stuffed with feta cheese, something he’d found out that Sherlock not only enjoyed but would eat regularly if he could be arsed to actually get up and go get them, and a suggestion to hand feed Sherlock to Wagner. Then he settled in to complete his paperwork so he could be free for the evening.

John felt somewhat placated though he wished he had mind bleach to wipe the image of a naked, tattooed Mycroft Holmes out of his brain. He did save the address for the shop and decided to go out and get some shopping done. He wished Greg luck, if he was going after Mycroft then he would need every ounce of luck he could get.

**oOoOoOo**

Greg looked up at the house at the address Mycroft had sent him. Oddly enough, despite the posh neighborhood, it was not at all the huge mansion he’d been expecting. Like the man itself it was deceptively simple and elegant on the outside. It made Greg wonder how much the inside would reflect Mycroft. He strode up the steps, not at all doubting that his every move was being watched sharply, and rung the bell.

It was Mycroft himself that opened the door. The house wasn’t big enough to require any other help than the cleaning lady who came twice a week. Besides, the more people you allowed into your house the larger chance of a security breach. His eyes traveled over the man on his doorstep, mentally cataloguing clothes, posture and once again trying to figure out where those sodding piercings could be. “Do come in, it is chilly out tonight.”

The inspector gave Mycroft a warm once over, his smile widening in mingled delight and attraction as he took in the missing jacket and waistcoat. Mycroft stood before him in just the white shirt he’d bet his paycheck was silk and the well tailored trousers and, his eyes dropped further, no shoes. Somehow the lack of shoes made it all the more endearing and Greg had to stifle a grin as sock clad toes wiggled under his scrutiny. 

He stepped in, brushing against Mycroft deliberately as he did, “Have a good day running the empire Overlord Holmes?”

“Ah you know how it is, all the serfs complaining and all the lesser lords trying to overthrow me, work, work, work. Dull as always.” Mycroft smirked even as his skin tingled where Greg had brushed past him. “How about you? Have you scouted a replacement for Sergeant Donovan yet?” He lead the other man deeper into his house, into his library, the room where he could let his guard down and be himself. There were no cameras, no bugs and no underlings in this room, just a fireplace, comfy chairs and hundreds upon hundreds of books. 

“I’ve had my eye on one for a while, he’s young but he’s good. I was trying to figure out how I could bring him into the unit without the brass or Donovan raising hell so your sneaky little present worked out perfectly. Biggest relief is that without Sally around Anderson’ll ease back on trying to impress and prove he knows more than he actually does and he’ll focus on his real job. Plus since she won’t be there to offer Sherlock a full set of data he won’t have as much material to take potshots at Anderson’s infidelity. I can sense blessed peace, in as much as I get at a crime scene, within my reach.” He gave Mycroft a warm smile, “Thank you.”

“It was nothing really, just the smallest whisper in the right ear and then sit and watch it play out but you’re welcome.” Mycroft walked them over to the huge leather armchairs in front of the fireplace. “I’m afraid I’m not being that good of a host, not used to guests. Are you hungry? Can I offer you food or drink?” In a lot of ways Mycroft was just at inept at social skills as his brother, he just hid it better and paid people to be pleasant in his place.

“Oh I’m good for the moment. I’m curious about something, I’m guessing you’ve been doing some research about my piercings and tattoo,” he gave Mycroft a smile that he knew from experience made women literally toss him their knickers, “Find anything?”

Mycroft made a face. “No, it is actually quite vexing. Either you got your tattoo done underground or out of the country and piercings, well anyone with a needle and some skill can do those. Very annoying. I believe firmer records needs to be kept.” He sat down in one chair, hesitating for a brief moment before pulling his feet up and tucking them beneath himself. “It wasn’t difficult at all to find out Dr. Watson’s ink, you only need to look at the man to figure out his choice of tattoo and where it is places. You...Not so much.”

Greg chuckled, “Not underground nor out of the country. The tat was done in Dorset by an old friend of mine borrowing his father’s equipment for the night. Everyone one of us got a tat that night,” a nostalgic smile tilted at his lips, “Jan’s still makes Ripper choke on his tongue and they’ve been married for twenty years,” he stretched his legs out in front of him lazily, “And I did all but one of the piercings myself.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as they swept over Greg again, as if he was doing his best to see through the layers of clothes. The thought of Greg piercing himself did dangerous, dangerous things to Mycroft’s libido. “The more I learn about you the less I know, it is disconcerting. I am not sure I like the feeling.”

He had to grin, “I’ll be wicked and admit that I enjoy mystifying you. I can’t see it happening very often.” He ran his fingers over his short silver hair, “It was a rock and roll sort of thing. I was in a band with three of my friends. Janice Huffman, Rupert ‘Ripper’ Graves, and of course the tattoo artist, Liam St. Allyerdyce. Jan was our bassist and background vocal, Ripper was our drummer, Liam switched between rhythm guitar and keyboard, and I was on lead guitar and vocal.” He grinned, “It was massive fun for four college kids. Liam went on to become an accountant, Jan’s a real estate agent, married Ripper, who’s Mr. Mom now, and they have four kids. And of course there’s me. Anyway the piercings and tats just seemed like the thing to do when you’re in a rock band.” He tugged on his earlobe, “I know you’ve seen this hole. I’ve got two more under my clothes, Jan did the third piercing for me while I was passed out drunk.”

Rock band, yes, Mycroft could see the other man on stage, he had that kind of presence about him. Could captivate an audience even now as a police officer. Greg Lestrade was the man at the forefront of things, just as Mycroft was the one in the shadows. “Sounds like...fun?” It came out more as a question than a statement. Mycroft had never experienced that kind of University life, he studied, slept and worked, that was all.

“It was though it was more that we were doing it together than what we were doing. We’d all been friends since we were in nappies so it was, in a way, a last hoorah for who we’d been growing up. Now we’re all responsible adults though I do still take the acoustic out and torture it from time to time.” He studied Mycroft, “So was the ‘show me yours I’ll show you mine’ an honest comment? Does Overlord Mycroft have a tattoo or piercing hidden away somewhere?”

“Of course I don’t, it’s not proper for someone like me with a minor position in the government. Not to mention that Mummy would be ever so upset.” There was a slight sparkle in Mycroft’s eyes. The worst thing on my skin are freckles. 

“Freckles hm?” Greg’s eyes swept lazily over Mycroft as if he could see past his clothes to the aforementioned freckles, “Maybe I should mention now that I have an inordinate fondness for freckles.”

“That is another piece of information I learn about you, weird fondness to have though.” Mycroft actually looked a little bit confused, as if he wasn’t sure what to do next, if he should fling his shirt off or continue making small talk. “You are aware that I invited you over to copulate right?”

“Mmmhmm, and I can’t believe you missed the implication in the freckle statement,” Greg rose to his feet and stalked like some sort of graceful predator towards Mycroft, “When I say fondness, I mean the sort of fondness that involves me mapping your freckles out with my mouth,” he leaned down, hands on either arm of Mycroft’s chair, and angled his head in, nuzzling at the spot just under Mycroft’s ear, “There’s a little trio here,” he flicked his tongue out in quick licks, tracing from one freckle to the other. “You, Mycroft Holmes, are eatable.”

Mycroft sucked in a deep breath at the feeling of Greg’s tongue on his skin. Goose-bumps rose in the wake of Greg’s mouth. “Feel free to eat me then.” He turned his head, took hold of Greg’s tie and pulled him close, latching on to the man’s bottom lip.

For Greg it was like being hit in the gut with a freight train. After months of longing, _months_ of torturous want, he had his mouth on Mycroft’s. He certainly didn’t let grass grow under his feet and angled his head, licking into Mycroft’s mouth, almost desperate for a deeper taste of him. One hand went to the back of Mycroft’s head, fingers spearing into the dark hair always slicked into ruthless order. He was looking forward to mussing this man up.

Mycroft ran his tongue over the one in his mouth before sucking on it. Greg tasted like coffee and tobacco, it seemed as if the DI had been unfaithful to his nicotine patch. After a while Mycroft took a little more action, battling Greg’s tongue and pushing his way into the other man’s mouth, taking full care to taste and explore everything he could. His hands pulled on Greg’s tie so he could loosen the knot and pull it off, before getting to work on his buttons.

Greg’s own hands were far from idle, making quick work of the buttons down Mycroft’s shirt, yanking it open so he could smooth his hands over the sleek muscles. Okay the next time he heard Sherlock call Mycroft fat, he was going to tell him, in detail, just how wrong he was. Mycroft was _not_ fat. He was sleek and smooth and oh God delicious.

Gregory Lestrade was a very attractive man, Mycroft had noticed that the first time he laid eyes on him. He was strong and rough and downright sexy. To see that man look at him with such hunger in his eyes, it was surprising. Mycroft lived in the real world and he knew that he was mediocre, not a troll but not worth that hunger either. He wasn’t going to be fool enough to point that out though, no he was going to enjoy this moment and take as well as give all the pleasure he could. He had finally gotten all the buttons on Greg’s shirt undone and worked his hands beneath the parted fabric, he really needed to get Greg some shirts of better quality, this one was terribly rough but Greg’s skin was smooth and warm and lovely. Oh yes, it should only be touched by the very best of things.

The inspector tilted his head, breaking his lips away from Mycroft’s and used the moment to begin nibbling at his jawline, hiding his smile and concentrating on Mycroft, so he’d know the instant he found the first piercing. His fingers, a little calloused from his guitar playing, traced and stroked over Mycroft’s ribs, feeling a tickle of concern. They weren’t jutting by any means but they were just a little bit too prominent to be healthy. Oh yes he’d be having a conversation with Sherlock on the ‘fat’ comments, and probably wind up annoying the fuck out of Mycroft’s PA getting her to deliver some home cooked healthy food.

Mycroft shivered beneath Greg’s touches, his hands feeling almost too good on his skin. Greg had big hands, capable hands, working hands. Mycroft liked them very, very much. His own fingers were busy mapping out Greg’s torso, he almost groaned when his fingers encountered the first touch of metal, he circled the small nub of Greg’s left nipple, feeling the barbell through it, tugging on it lightly. The thought of Greg piercing himself there, sliding metal through soft sensitive skin made aching heat pool low in his stomach.

Greg made a sort of purring growl, the sort you’d expect from a large jungle cat, at the tug. He’d chosen the nipple piercing because he’d heard that made it that much more sensitive and it was true. Having his nipple piercing played with was a guaranteed instant hard-on. He kissed, licked, and sucked his way down Mycroft’s throat, rasping his tongue over the slight growth of stubble and scraping his teeth over the Adam’s apple. “You taste fantastic.”

“Do I? That’s fortunate then since I rather like your mouth on me.” Mycroft gave the nipple piercing another light tug, delighted by the response he’d gotten the first time. He ran his hands further down Greg’s chest and stomach, lips curling into a smile when he found the other piercing at Greg’s navel. He plucked at it as he put his feet back on the floor, leaning forward until he could close his lips around the nipple piercing while his fingers still played with the navel one.

This time it was a long, low groan, heat building in his bloodstream, already sizzling. He shifted so that his knee was sinking into the cushion of Mycroft’s chair, right between his legs, and pressed up, his thigh rubbing against the hardening bulge behind the zip. “I absolutely plan to have my mouth on more of you. I’m going to taste my way down your body, to hit my knees and suck you off, and I’m going to leave marks. No one else will see them but you and I will know they’re there, that I bit and sucked them into being.”

“Oh God.” Mycroft pulled away panting, arousal and want staining his cheeks red. He wanted that, he wanted to go to work tomorrow and know that underneath his clothes he was marked and claimed, wanted Greg’s marks on him. “Time for bed, I want you to do all those things and I want to do my own share of touching but not here.” Mycroft struggled to get out of the chair, moaning when his erection pressed more firmly against Greg’s knee. 

He did get up though and took Greg’s hand, pulling him out of the library and up a narrow set of stairs. Despite some beliefs his brother had, Mycroft didn’t over indulge much but his bed was an exception, it was huge, like a lake of soft sheets and fluffy pillows. The sheets were not silk, no nothing that gaudy would make its way into Mycroft’s home, they were Egyptian cotton, the highest thread count money could buy. He showed Greg into his bedroom and made quick work to pull the jacket and shirt completely off Greg’s shoulders and arms, giving him more access to that beautiful body.

Greg stripped Mycroft’s shirt completely off and made a sound of pure _want_. he dipped his head to lave at Mycroft’s collarbone and the line of freckles that played over it. His fingers went to his nipples and flicked over them teasingly before dragging down over the flat abdomen to play at the fly of his trousers.

Mycroft’s skin tingled, buzzed and seemed to have a mind of its own, completely separate from Mycroft’s brain. It ached for Greg’s touch, as if it was created solely for Greg to put his hands and mouth on. His own hands splayed across Greg’s back, mapping out smoothness and scars, mentally counting all the times he could have lost Greg without ever getting to touch him like this. It was an unacceptable tally. 

Greg’s fingers worked open the trousers and pushed them down as he kissed and nibbled his way along Mycroft’s shoulder. He laved the skin with his tongue and smiled a bit as his fingers told him that Mycroft’s underwear were traditional briefs. He should have known. Mycroft could be unconventional but at the heart of it he was a traditionalist. He worked his fingers under the elastic and wiggled the pants down over the slim hips. 

He nipped at Mycroft’s shoulder and coaxed him to step out of the clothes before backing him toward the humongous bed. As soon as Mycroft’s calves were brushing against the side of the bed, Greg sank to his knees, pressing his mouth to the hollow of a hipbone as his hand curved around Mycroft’s prick, a sound of pleased satisfaction vibrating in his throat at the shape of it filling his hand.

A hissing, pleading moan left Mycroft’s throat, his eyes wide and locked on Greg on his knees in front of him. Even in that position it was clear that Greg was completely in control. Mycroft liked it, liked being able to let go for once, to feel and just go where ever Greg would lead him. That didn’t mean he was still and inactive. No, his hands were on Greg’s shoulders, his neck and in his hair, touching, getting to know Greg’s body just as well as he wanted to know his mind.

His eyes went midnight in hunger at the sound Mycroft had made and, after taking the time to suck a vibrant bruise into being on his hip, he decided he’d been patient enough in his desire to know every last bit of Mycroft Holmes. His mouth closed around the head, tongue lapping at it, flicking at his frenulum then swirling around as his hand slid up and down the exposed shaft. His other hand was exploring Mycroft’s body wherever he could reach. Nails traced teasingly over freckled skin and he looked up, eyes connecting with Mycroft’s as he took more of his cock into his mouth.

“Gods...Greg.” Mycroft couldn’t be quiet, not when Greg’s pretty lips were wrapped around his prick like that. Not when his mouth was heaven on earth. All of Mycroft was focused on the man on his knees in front of him, not one thought escaping in any other direction. Mycroft was not a man to use curse words but oh now he was tempted to, nothing he knew of could come close to the pleasure he felt right now. He looked into Greg’s eyes and tightened his hands in silver hair, not pulling or pushing, just holding on, grounding himself.

Greg made a hum, the gentle tug in his hair was deliciously arousing. He was doing this, making Mycroft Holmes grope for something to steady him. He took still more of the hard shaft into his mouth, a wicked glint sparking in his eyes as he pulled back a little then returned, bobbing his head once, twice, taking a deep breath then relaxing his throat and taking Mycroft in until his nose was buried in the soft pubic curls and he was swallowing around the other man’s cock.

That caused a strangled shout, a sound Mycroft couldn’t have stopped even if he’d wished it. Such slick, wet, tight heat around his erection made him shudder, sweat broke out on his skin and his hips gave an involuntary jerk, despite his bets attempts at controlling himself and choking the man going down on him. “Just...please, please, please.”

Greg pulled back just long enough to press a kiss to Mycroft’s unmarked hip and say huskily, “Shh, you don’t have to beg. Not from me. All you ever have to do is ask.” That said he sank his mouth back onto Mycroft’s erection, deep-throating him again then started to bob his head, taking him into the root every time. One hand massaging his balls, the other stroking Mycroft’s skin.

“Oh God, so good, so, so, so good.” Mycroft didn’t even recognize his own voice, he didn’t sound like that. It was a fleeting thought though, disappearing with Greg’s next suck. His balls tightened in the palm of Greg’s hand and sparks of electricity traveled down his spine, heat coiling in his belly. “I’m going to...” He pulled on Greg’s hair in warning.

He hummed and didn’t let Mycroft pull him off instead swallowing around him again and making a pleased, almost growl when the first spurt of semen hit the back of his throat. He continued to swallow, the sounds Mycroft was making going right to his own cock. He had every intention of bringing Mycroft up and over again because watching him come was honestly one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.

Mycroft was undone, turned inside out and wobbling where he stood. It felt like both his brain and his soul had been sucked out through his penis. He didn’t mind, how could he mind when Greg looked at him like that? His knees wouldn’t carry him any longer and he sunk down on the bed behind him, sighing a little in loss when his spent prick slipped out of Greg’s mouth. Mycroft pulled on Greg until he could claim his mouth, tasting himself as he kissed Greg.

Greg hummed into the kiss, his hands still stroking over Mycroft’s body, keeping the fire stoked. He was straddling Mycroft’s thighs and still had his own trousers on both because he’d been too focused on Mycroft and because he was drawing out the reveal of his tattoo as long as humanly possible. He nipped playfully at Mycroft’s bottom lip then kissed his way over to run his tongue over the pulse point in the other man’s neck. He would leave a mark there but he liked tasting, feeling the pulse jump under his mouth. “I think I’ve got fantasy material for eternity now. God you’re fucking gorgeous when you come.”

Mycroft’s heart beat even faster at those words. He’d always thought sex slightly undignified but he couldn’t think so now, not when he could witness and feel what it did to Greg. “Hmm, time for me to get my viewing then. I need to put a visual to all those dirty sounds I’ve been hearing you make.” His hands went to the narrow leather belt Greg wore unbuckling it before moving on to the top button and the zip. “I want you inside me, so deep I’ll feel you there for a week, no matter what I’m doing.”

“Oh your wish is my command,” Greg grinned against Mycroft’s skin, “in this respect anyway.” He shifted to make it easier for Mycroft to undo his zip, his hands still roaming the long body beneath him.

Mycroft undid the trousers and inhaled sharply when he noticed that there was nothing but warm smooth skin beneath the fabric. “Oh you are a naughty, dangerous man Greg, very dangerous indeed.” He pulled the trousers down as far as he could with the position they were in, eyes going to the red, flushed shaft and his hands going behind Greg, squeezing his arse. “Beautiful.”

He licked his bottom lip, leaning back into those very sexy hands. “Mmm I’m glad to meet with your approval,” he leaned back down to nip, kiss, and suck his way over Mycroft’s chest, leaving a few marks in his wake. He had not been joking about marking him up. He closed his mouth over a nipple, scraping his bottom teeth over it teasingly beforehand.

Tensing like a bowstring, Mycroft arched his back almost to the point of pain. He threw his head back and his nails bit into the cheeks of Greg’s bum. Christ that felt good, Mycroft could feel his spent prick twitching with interest again. 

“Oh now that’s promising,” Greg scraped his teeth over the nipple again, his hands going under Mycroft’s back to support him, “Mmm the things I can do with you,” he nibbled his way to the other nipple and gave it the same treatment before sealing his mouth over it and sucking, hands playing along Mycroft’s flanks as he did.

“Do them, do everything to me, make me yours...At least for tonight.” Mycroft’s voice was low and gravelly, not at all his usual smooth tones. One hand slipped from that delectable behind to curl around Greg’s shaft, keeping his grip light and teasing. He raised his head to look Greg over, noting no sign of ink on the front, where was that illusive tattoo?

Greg refrained from telling Mycroft that he had plans to make him his for a lot longer than just tonight. He didn’t want to scare him off. He groaned as that elegant hand curled around him, the teasing bastard, and sat up, noticing the way Mycroft’s eyes swept over him. A roguish grin curved his lips and he leaned in quickly to brush his lips against Mycroft’s before sliding off him just long enough to finish shedding his trousers, remembering to retrieve a condom and lube from his pocket, and turn around, looking over his shoulder to watch Mycroft’s expression.

At first Mycroft’s eyes widened, then his lips pulled into a genuine smile before he began chuckling. He was still aroused, still wanton but that tattoo was so very fitting for Greg that he couldn’t help it. Mycroft inched forward on the bed so that he could run his fingertips over the inked words on Greg’s right bum cheek and the logo beneath them. “If you play your cards right I might just do that. Kiss it I mean.” 

“Oh I think I can play them well enough,” the touch had gone straight to his already throbbing cock and he turned around to slide back onto the bed, settling himself between Mycroft’s thighs. His hands slid down the lean flanks, “To be honest though, right now I’m more interested in kissing yours.”

A brow rose. “You are, are you? Well I think that could be arranged.” Mycroft kept his eyes on Greg, his hands finding their way back to that warm, corded body. “So how do you want me, front or back?”

Greg pursed his lips then noticed the full length mirror off to the side, angle it right and he and Mycroft would easily be able to see each other. He nudged the other man further up the bed and around until they were both framed in the mirror then he pet his hand down Mycroft’s thigh, “Turn over sexy.”

Mycroft complied and met Greg’s eyes in the mirror as he did so. There was something very intimate and highly arousing about watching himself being touched by Gregory Lestrade. “Kinky, should have anticipated that.” He drew his knees up underneath himself and spread his legs, leaning forward on his elbows. “Good thing I like kinky.”

“Bloody damn good for me,” Greg ran his tongue over his lips and took handfuls of Mycroft’s arse. Oh he could see why someone might mistakenly think Mycroft had excess body fat if they only looked at his arse, it was full and round, a true bubble butt, and deliciously perfect. He spread the cheeks, exposing the tight little pucker, and leaned in to run the flat of his tongue up the crack.

A really loud, dirty moan escaped him and his thighs trembled at the sensation, Mycroft’s head fell down to rest on his crossed hands on the bed and his cock gave another twitch, filling with blood again. If the first touch of Greg’s mouth there felt that good, Mycroft wasn’t sure he’d survive all of it.

Greg made a hungry sound before applying himself to rimming Mycroft. He lapped over and around the wrinkled skin, massaging it with his tongue, coaxing it to loosen and relax. The noises it brought out of Mycroft had him leaking onto the sheets and not giving a bloody fuck. He slowly wriggled and pressed his tongue against Mycroft’s hole until he could push his tongue inside.

“Fuck.” This time Mycroft couldn’t hold back, the curse word slipped out as he was a panting, writhing mass beneath Greg’s hands and mouth. He’d always known that Greg had a lethal mouth on him but this was a new talent, a talent Mycroft wanted to keep all to himself, just as he wanted the man all to himself. Before John, before he saw the change John had in his brother he had actually been jealous of Sherlock, for getting to spend time with the DI when he couldn’t. Now he was clutching his hands in the sheets, trying not to fall apart and loving every second of it.

Greg had to groan as the taste of Mycroft, musk, and lust danced over his tongue and when he heard that curse word slip out of the always composed man’s mouth he hand to reach down and squeeze himself tight at the base of his cock to keep from coming. Once his orgasm backed off, he fumbled for the travel size lube he’d brought and opened it, dribbling a little of the slick fluid over his fingers, when he then brought to where he was still rimming Mycroft. He worked one finger in gently alongside his tongue, almost moaning as he felt Mycroft tighten for a moment around both appendages.

It didn’t hurt, Mycroft was too wound up to feel much of any pain, especially not with Greg’s tongue still there, making him see white with pure pleasure. “More, please, I need more.” Mycroft longed to feel the stretch, the burn as Greg worked him open so that he could slide into him. He was completely hard again and he spread his knees wider, not caring in the slightest how wanton it made him seem. He did want, he wanted so much that he was aching with it.

Sweet Jesus Mycroft Holmes would be the death of him but God what an incredible way to go. Greg worked another finger in, slipping his tongue out to kiss and suck a mark onto Mycroft’s arse cheek, as he slid his fingers in and out of him. “God you’re so tight around my fingers, squeezing around them like a vise. I can’t wait to feel you around my cock, all hot and tight and perfect,” he lapped at the mark he’d made as he scissored his fingers stretching Mycroft open for him a little more.

“Yessssss.” It was a drawn out hiss. “I want it, want you inside, stretching my open and filling me up until all I can feel is you, hot and pulsing inside me. Mycroft braced his knees on the bed and pushed back on Greg’s fingers until he was practically fucking himself on them.

Greg added another finger until all three were pressing in and out, his tongue rejoining them as he reached deeper and pressed the little gland he knew would get more of those desperate, hungry sounds out of Mycroft. His free hand went up under him and slid up his chest to pinch a nipple, rolling it between his fingers.

Mycroft’s whole body shuddered violently and he let out a keening wail. “Fuck me, just fuck me already.” 

Greg didn’t waste any more time, he really couldn’t because much more and he’d be coming without ever getting inside Mycroft. He slipped his fingers and tongue out and grabbed up the condom packet, ripping it open and rolling it on in a smooth, quick motion. He spread more lube over his covered cock and brought it to Mycroft’s hole. He slid his hand back under Mycroft’s chest, supporting him and holding him still as he began to push inside him.

Mycroft was moaning continuously as he felt the head of Greg’s prick breach him, spread him wider that the fingers had, sinking in smoothly. There was a slight burn but Mycroft loved that feeling, knowing that what would follow was ecstasy. “That’s it, so good Greg, so very good. Deeper, please, deeper.” If Greg hadn’t been holding him still he would have pushed himself back on Greg by now.

He complied until he was completely inside Mycroft, the tight walls of his arse around him a form of bliss he never thought could happen. He pressed a kiss to one of Mycroft’s shoulder blades, giving him a few moments to adjust before he rolled his hips, sliding out part way then back in. Slowly at first, to make sure he wasn’t hurting Mycroft. He’d cut his arm off before hurting him. “God, so hot, so tight. You’re so good around me, so fucking good.”

“Yes, God yes. You feel so good inside me, moving and filling me up.” Mycroft was not the kind of person to just lie back and think of England, no matter his position in life so even with Greg’s arms around him he did roll his hips in movement with Greg, pushing his hips back and squeezing around the cock inside him. He wanted Greg as lost in lust as he was, wanted to show the other man that he would never have anything as good as what they could have together with anyone else. This was a claiming, a claiming that went both ways.

Greg made a growl and moved faster, assured that he wouldn’t be hurting his lover. He held just a little tighter and pulled, bringing Mycroft’s torso up so that he was leaning back against his chest, the both of them up on their knees, “Watch,” he licked up Mycroft’s neck, “watch us in the mirror Mycroft.” His hands roamed Mycroft’s chest then one fell to his hip, holding tight as he thrust hard and fast. He brought his other down to swipe a finger at the leaking precome from Mycroft’s cock. He brought the finger to his mouth, meeting Mycroft’s eyes in the mirror, and sucked it in, cheeks hollowing and reminding his lover of the earlier blow job.

“What are you doing to me?” It was an honestly asked question, Mycroft didn’t feel like this, didn’t act like this and didn’t watch himself get thoroughly fucked in a mirror in his own bedroom. Now that Greg had told him to watch though, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He didn’t recognize the man in the mirror, eyes wild, cheeks flushed, hair all over the place and cock hard and bouncing up against his belly with every thrust Greg made. He’d rather look at the man behind him, Greg’s expression and the way his muscles bunched and relaxed with every movement. Mycroft reached up and looped one arm around Greg’s neck and his other hand went to his own erection, stroking it as Greg fucked into him.

His mind supplied _‘Loving you.’_ but he knew Mycroft would not in any way be ready for that so he chose the better part of valor. He mouthed the muscle at the side of Mycroft’s neck, the hand not clamped on Mycroft’s hip hard enough to bruise dropping to cover Mycroft’s hand, stroking with him, controlling the pressure and pace. “That’s it, take your pleasure baby,” it was a little incongruous to call the British Government ‘baby’ he supposed but somehow it fit. “Every time you sit, stand, even move tomorrow, you’ll feel where I stretched you out and filled you up and you’ll remember this.” He punctuated each word with a rolling thrust, “Remember me pushing into you, fucking you, remember feeling me sliding in and out while we watch in the mirror. Then you’ll get home and strip for your shower and you’ll see the marks I put on you and remember everything my mouth is capable of.” He licked the shell of Mycroft’s ear.

“Yes, I’ll remember all of it.” Mycroft knew he would too, at least this time he could use his photographic memory for his own advantage. His hand sped up on his erection and his breath came out in sharp huffs, mouth open and eyes sliding shut. Both feeling what happened and watching it too was too much, Mycroft didn’t know how to handle it. His stomach clenched as Greg hit his prostate over and over again and he let out another shout.

“Come on baby, come for me. You look so fucking sexy like this, and the sounds you make,” Greg made a low groan, he was too close, holding back by his fingernails but he didn’t want to come until Mycroft did, “God I could come just from listening to you. Go over Mycroft baby, go over.” He rubbed his thumb at the slit at the tip of Mycroft’s prick just as he rolled his hips and battered into Mycroft’s prostate again, his breath huffing and the dirty words rolling out of his mouth in an attempt to throw Mycroft over.

Mycroft didn’t just go over, he tumbled, he flew, throwing himself over that ledge, not having a choice, not with Greg’s prick inside him and his words in his ear. He didn’t know what sounds he made as his body spasmed and shook, semen bursting out of his cock to splatter his hand and Greg’s, his stomach and the sheets beneath them. Mycroft clung to Greg, his arse still contracting. He had never come that hard before.

Greg threw his head back as Mycroft tightened around him, pulling him into orgasm after him like a domino effect. He cursed, reverent, husky, into Mycroft’s ear, riding out the tsunami of pleasure that swamped him. He released Mycroft’s hip to band the arm around him, holding him close as the orgasm seemed to sweep away all his foundations and leave him a shuddering, pleasured wreck. He barely remembered to let Mycroft’s cock go and grab tight hold of the condom as he pulled out in regret. The last thing either of them needed was an embarrassing trip to the A&E, or worse a call to John. 

He buried his face into Mycroft’s shoulder, panting, still shuddering, and forcing the words that wanted to burst out back. “God. Holy fuck.”

“Mmm, yes.” Mycroft was all sated, languid muscles and fucked out bliss. He’d come twice, with the only person he wanted. He did feel empty with Greg pulling out of him, no matter how necessary it was to do so. He couldn’t keep standing on his knees so he shifted, pushing Greg down on the sheets of his bed before spreading out on top of him, wrapping himself around him like a human blanket. Mycroft kissed Greg’s sweat-damped skin before resting his cheek over Greg’s heart. “Stay.”

Greg lifted a hand to pet through Mycroft’s hair, his other arm going around his waist, “I will.” For as long as Mycroft wanted him, he’d stay.

_**~to be continued...~** _


	10. Chapter Ten

**Warning:** _Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually._

**Tales of a Feather.**

**_Chapter Ten._ **

Sherlock heaved another bored sigh and flicked his wrist, flinging a knife at the wall. John was working today, there were no cases at all, Molly was on vacation so he was barred from Bart’s morgue, all of his current experiments were all in the long waiting stage, and so he was left with nothing to ward off death by ennui but flinging cutlery at the wall until John came home, which would likely be soon. 

John was happy to be on his way home; Sarah still gave him concerned looks and watched him with worried eyes when he went into his office/consulting room. What had happened there didn’t bother John, hell if he was that sensitive he wouldn’t be able to walk through most of London, Sarah’s worry bothered him more than being hit over the head and chained to his filing cabinet ever would. 

He fished out his keys and opened the door to 221B Baker Street, taking the steps two at a time. When he entered their flat, John just stopped and looked at the wall, yeah, Mrs. Hudson would definitely add to their rent for that. “Well at least it isn’t my gun. Had a productive day then?” John shrugged out of his jacket and walked over to the kitchen to put away the milk he’d bought along with some more of those olives, Greg had tipped him off about. 

“Ugh, I don’t know how you do it John.” Sherlock swept off his chair and went to stand in the entryway of the kitchen, “How do you manage to just sit anywhere with nothing to do? It’s so _boring_.” He watched John move around the kitchen with a lazy, proprietary eye, “There aren’t even any interesting burglaries to play with. Is it too much to ask that the criminals of London commit a few intriguing misdemeanors?”

“They will soon enough, the full moon is coming around, that always brings out the crazies.” John was used to Sherlock’s moods so he hardly paid them any mind anymore, not unless Sherlock became a danger to himself. He put away the groceries he’d bought and flicked on the kettle with sharp measured movements, habit still left over from the military. “And you know I don’t sit around on my arse doing nothing, I work and then I relax, not all of us can have brains like yours.” John stopped to look at Sherlock. “Have you eaten? Drunk? Done anything but fling knives at the wall?” He took a few steps closer until he could grab Sherlock by the back of his neck and pull him down for a kiss. “Hello by the way.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock sank into the kiss for a moment then pulled away with a suck to John’s bottom lip, “You had coffee and dry corned beef for lunch. You hate dry corned beef, bad day?” It was both concern and an avoidance tactic that made him ask, he hadn’t eaten since the honeyed toast John had coaxed him into eating this morning and he knew John wouldn’t be happy about that. Somehow, over the past couple of months, John had managed to get him to actually eat twice a day almost every day, and most days thrice a day. He wasn’t actually certain how John was doing it as it was never bullying or nagging him into it.

“Not bad really, just...ordinary.” John knew he shouldn’t complain, knew he shouldn’t feel that way but he just felt fed up with ear infections, sore throats and skinned knees. “Sarah is still treating me like I need to be wrapped in cotton and I think you’ve rubbed off on me...People are just so stupid, demanding antibiotics for a clear viral infection, convinced that a bloody sniffle is the Ebola virus.” John frowned, not really liking how whiny he sounded. “Guess I just had an off day, it will be better tomorrow. If I make hash browns and meatballs, will you eat it? We could go out afterwards; see if anything dark and vicious is going on somewhere.”

“Oh you do know how to sweet talk me Dr. Watson,” Sherlock leaned in and pressed a kiss to the stress lines on John’s forehead, “I’ll eat,” he gave John a wicked smile, “Perhaps we will visit the East End, see how Sally’s getting on.” He loved making John give him the exasperated, half disapproving, half amused look that crossed his face now. “Perhaps some red wi-” he looked down and pulled his phone out of his pocket when it rang, brows lifting in surprise at the number. He answered, putting the phone to his ear, “Mother?” 

In an instant as his mother’s voice came through the phone, all humor and playfulness left him, as well as a good bit of color. His face took on a disbelieving, confused cast and he automatically reached out to John, taking his hand in a hard grip.

John twined his fingers with Sherlock’s holding on tightly and giving him all the silent support and comfort he could. He didn’t know what was being said but he could see from Sherlock’s expression that it wasn’t good. In all the time he’d been living with Sherlock, both before and after _The Incident_ he had never heard Sherlock’s mother call him. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, no matter what was happening, he wanted Sherlock to know that he would be right there with him.

“We’ll be there shortly. Yes Mummy, _we_. John’s mine and he’s his friend as well. Goodbye,” he hung up, the lost look still in his eyes as he met John’s, “Lestrade’s been shot.” He couldn’t comprehend it, not the fact that the DI had been shot nor how it had come about and especially not the way he’d heard Mycroft’s voice in the background, broken in a way he’d never thought possible of his brother.

John paled and swallowed loudly. Greg was one of the few men he really called a friend these days. In the time Sherlock had been gone they had done their best to keep each other afloat. Greg was a police officer, he took risks every time he went to work but John had never imagined anything like this to happen. “Let’s go.” He walked out to the living room to get his jacket that he’d left on his chair, hand still linked with Sherlock’s. “The sooner we get to hospital the sooner we can find out what the fuck is going on. When Greg gets well I will kick his arse for allowing himself to get shot.” When, not if. John had to believe that Lestrade would make it, no other option was allowed.

“Not his fault,” Sherlock dug his heels in for just a moment to still John, his mouth dry and his palms going sweaty with fear and nerves he’d not felt since he’d been sixteen, “Mummy...Mummy said it was my father, who shot him. That he ‘came by’ to visit Mycroft and just,” he swallowed, “shot Lestrade upon introduction.”

John went completely still, every muscle and nerve in his body shutting down only to start up again. He straightened his shoulders and turned steely blue eyes on Sherlock. “Right then, small change of plans. We still go to the hospital and make sure Greg is safe, you stay with your family and I will go and find your fucker of a father and kill him with my bare hands.”

Sherlock leaned in and pressed his lips to John’s, grounding himself in the kiss. When he pulled back he didn’t say anything, just held tighter to John’s hand as they left the flat.

**oOoOoOo**

It was one of the most frightening sights Sherlock could remember, Mycroft in complete dishabille, bloodstains still on his hands and shirt, looking absolutely gutted. _’He actually loves Lestrade.’_ He hadn’t been expecting that really. Mycroft always strove to distance himself from caring. It actually hurt to see his always composed older brother looking so devastated.

Mycroft was looking at his hands stained with Greg’s blood. These were the hands that ran the country, the hands of the shadow king. If he wanted something done it happened, in seconds it happened but when he’d held them over the gaping wound in his lover’s body, Greg’s blood had still just kept on escaping him. 

On moment Greg had been smiling, then his father had shown up and from one second to the next he was bleeding out on Mycroft’s oak floor with a hole in him that was not supposed to be there. 

Sherlock wasn’t certain if he and John should come forward or not. Their presence might be very, very _un_ welcomed by Mycroft, who hated seeming vulnerable to anyone. Even their mother, who was sitting composed and calm next to Mycroft, one tiny, delicate hand on his arm. Then she looked over and her eyes connected with his.

Violet Holmes nee Sherringford rose to her feet, patting her eldest’s arm to catch his attention and redirect it to his brother. Oh her little baby looked so pale, though not as skinny as he usually did, and shocked. She wasn’t certain if it was who had been shot or who had done the shooting that caused that reaction. She’d find out soon enough. She walked forward on elegant, understated heels, “Sherlock darling,” she reached up, and up he was still so _tall_ , to pat his cheek.

“Mother,” he bent and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, his eyes meeting Mycroft’s over her shoulder.

Mycroft looked up at his little brother, noticing John hanging back in the background; it was good that John was there, he’d look after Sherlock. 

“Sherlock.” He said as a greeting and had to clear his throat when it came out a rough croak. “Greg’s in surgery, we haven’t been told anything since we came in...I don’t know anything about how he’s doing.”

“Why don’t I go and check?” John took a step forward. “I still know some of the people here and I could ask around.” He met Sherlock’s eyes before turning and going to find someone he could hound for information.

Sherlock watched him walk off as his mother led him over to sit beside Mycroft. He let her because he had questions.

Violet pat her youngest on the shoulder, “I’ll go find us some tea ad be back in just a moment.” She clicked off, leaving her boys to get any unpleasantness out of the way.

He’d never been good at tact or expressing empathy and he knew Mycroft wasn’t likely to welcome it. “Mother didn’t say if he’d been apprehended,” He remained seated next to his brother, letting his shoulder brush against his slightly, “or why he’s come back now.” It was both statement and question and Sherlock rather hoped it would give Mycroft some sort of motivation to move out of shock.

Mycroft’s lips twisted into a horrible mimic of a smile. “He’s come back to do exactly what he did. Father knocked on my door, I let him in and the moment he saw Greg he pulled out a gun and shot him. Said he had not gone through the trouble of producing an heir only for him to turn out a fairy. I was disgracing the family name, a family I should do well to remember he was still in charge of.” He looked down at his hands again, noticing the way Greg’s blood had caked underneath his fingernails. “He’s not been apprehended, I was slightly busy trying to keep Greg alive...He’s still out there somewhere.” Part of Mycroft wondered if this was his punishment, maybe he deserved this for not doing more for Sherlock back when they were children. He didn’t deserve happiness but Greg was innocent, he didn’t deserve any of this. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Not for long.” If Sieger Holmes had done this out of hatred for homosexuality then John might be in danger as well, probably was simply because he knew his father would do anything possible to hurt him. He also knew that his father was not a soldier. The hell with it being a hospital, he pulled out his phone and sent John a text. 

‘He may come after you. Be hyper-aware so he does not succeed in ambushing you John.- SH’

‘I hope he does come, I’m ready. Don’t worry. - JW’

John sent the text, completely ignoring the dirty look he got from the nurse he was talking to. He did hope that Sieger Holmes would come after him; he’d show the bastard what fighting someone who fought back would feel like. 

Back in the waiting area, Mycroft looked down at the floor. “I’ve seen people die before, can’t say that it’s affected me all that much, we both know that I am not a very good person but there was so much blood Sherlock. Blood that’s supposed to be inside Greg, not splattered on my walls and leaking out on my floor.”

Sherlock’s jaw flexed, he did not like seeing Mycroft like this. He knew Mycroft’s job was paramount over him in importance but there would always be caring between them. “You’ve never loved the person bleeding out in front of you before Mycroft. I would say your reaction is very much in keeping with the situation.” He studied the wallpaper, mind already sifting through data at the usual blinding speed, “Where did the bullet hit exactly?”

“Chest, right side. From the way Greg coughed blood I’d say his lung collapsed. The gun was Father’s old one, the one he used to clean every Sunday evening. Apparently he’s been taking care of it because it certainly worked alright.” 

Sherlock’s mind went through the possibilities and came to the conclusion that Lestrade would live. “In that case you will have a convalescing detective inspector on your hands in short order.”

Mycroft’s shoulders slumped and he leaned back, resting his head on the wall behind him. “I can deal with that. Not the nursing type but I am sure I can hire someone while I oversee it. I am good at overseeing things.” He took several deep breaths, trying to get back to himself, finding his control again. He didn’t like feeling this raw. “Anthea has most of the SIS looking for Father; I hope they find him before he goes after John.” 

Sherlock hummed, “I’ve warned John of that possibility,” he held his phone up for Mycroft to see the return text from John. “He has been wanting a confrontation with Sieger for some time.” He would not call that man his father any longer because John was right. He was not a father, had never been a father to Sherlock. “However he won’t go looking until Lestrade is out of surgery and when he does, I will be going with him.” The hard anger returned to his eyes, “I warned him not to come near any of us again.”

“Just be careful, use the smarts we all know you have.” Mycroft was not going to try and stop Sherlock, not this time. Not only did he know that it would be pointless but this was something Sherlock needed. John would keep him safe. 

He merely hummed a bit and looked up when he heard John’s footsteps as well as the clacking of their mother’s heels. He held out a hand for John, looking up into the deep blue eyes, “Did you find a nurse susceptible to charm? Or shall I put forth my own ways?”

“I did better, I found a doctor.” John smiled and took Sherlock’s hand, aware that Mrs. Holmes was watching them. “Greg’s surgery has gone very well, they are closing him up right now and he’s expected to make a full recovery. Greg’s much too stubborn to let something like this take him down.”

Sherlock pulled John down to sit on his opposite side, leaving the chair on Mycroft’s other side for his mother. He saw the slight frown chase itself over his mother’s features but chose to ignore it. He loved his mother but he held no illusions about her and wasn’t comfortable with the way she liked to sit, flutter, and pat at him. “I would expect nothing less of Lestrade.” 

Violet ignored John, handing tea to first Sherlock then Mycroft and sitting with her own cup. She did not approve of her boys being in relationships with men, it was unnatural; however she chose not to speak on it and instead would ignore the reality of it. She was very good at ignoring reality. She pat Mycroft’s arm, “Is dear Anthea coming with a change for you Mycroft sweetie? You do look a bit of a fright.”

“Yes Mother, she should be on her way already.” Mycroft was already retreating back behind his shell. He was so relieved that Greg would be alright but he wasn’t comfortable showing it, not even in front of his family, especially not in front of his family. 

John was used to being ignored, in the army it had been a blessing to be overlooked. Being overlooked meant you had greater chance to stay alive. He didn’t have a particular wish to get to know Mrs. Holmes and as long as she didn’t say or do something to Sherlock...Or Mycroft he supposed, then John would keep his peace. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand instead. “I’m going to head off soon. You should stay here Sherlock.”

A dark brow winged up, “Oh hardly. I have a task to accomplish and I fully intend to drag you along with me John.” He ignored the disapproving tut of his mother and the start of her complaints that Mycroft needed him and his support, which was patently false. What Mycroft needed was to clean up, a change of clothes, to see Lestrade, and to know that Sieger Holmes was either imprisoned or dead, in that order.

“Mother, let John and Sherlock go, they can’t do anything here. All that is left now is to wait for Greg to wake up and that will be hours.” Mycroft straightened up when he heard the sound of stiletto heels coming down the corridor; he would recognize Anthea’s steps anywhere. His very capable PA turned the corner, bag of clothes in one hand and her trusted Blackberry in the other. “Here you are Sir, any progress report or rather lack thereof has been forwarded to your phone.” 

“Thank you Anthea.” Mycroft took the back and headed for the nearest bathroom.

Sherlock flicked his eyes in a roll as his mother began gushing over Anthea and stood up himself, “I believe that everything here is in more than capable hands,” he gave Mycroft’s PA a polite nod, “If you or Mycroft will inform me of when Lestrade regains consciousness it would be appreciated.”

“Of course.” Anthea nodded, looking up from her phone for a moment. “I’ve sent the report to your phone as well Mr. Holmes.” She gave John a small smile. “Good day Dr. Watson.”

“Same to you Anthea.” John nodded and got up from his seat. It was a poor quality for a doctor to have but Christ he hated hospitals, at least hated to be on this side of the line.

Sherlock gave his mother’s cheek a ghost of a kiss, “Mother. We’ll see you again soon.” He twined his fingers with John’s and headed for the exit. “The flat first. I need to gather a few things.”

“That’s fine, I need to get the Browning too. With all the new security in the hospitals I couldn’t bring it here.” He held on to Sherlock’s hand as they exited the hospital and went to hail a cab. “Not that I still wouldn’t enjoy killing him with my hands more.” John wasn’t going to pretend, he was in this to the end, he wanted the bastard that had made Sherlock’s childhood hell dead. He’d shot a cabbie for Sherlock after just meeting him, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for him now. “What kind of report did Anthea send you? Any sightings of Sieger? Maybe we can work out where he is by where he’s been since he left Mycroft’s house.”

Sherlock’s eyes were scanning the report Anthea had sent. There wasn’t much. Mycroft’s men were decent enough at their jobs but they weren’t a Holmes and for all his faults, Sieger was and had inherited the mind that went with the name. “Not much, he’s left a false trail as well as mixing in some of his real stops,” Sherlock slipped a glance over at John, “Call Mrs. Hudson, ask her if she could have a spot of dinner waiting for us. Exactly those words, and let me know if she doesn’t reply as always.”

John was used to Sherlock’s quirks by now but it still made his lips twitch as he fished out his phone and called Mrs. Hudson’s number. He did ask what Sherlock told him to and frowned when he heard the answer, he ended the call and turned to Sherlock. “I think he’s at home. Mrs. Hudson told us dinner would be ready in twenty minutes instead of telling me that she’s not our housekeeper.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed and he told the cabbie to re-route to the nearest tube station while tapping away on his phone, sending a message to Angelo. It was a simple one asking for delivery of one of Sherlock’s favorite dishes followed by a mention of the case he was currently working making him hungry. Angelo would know what he was really asking for. “We need to get to the tube station on Bond Street.” He kept hold of John’s hand even as he picked apart plan after plan, his father would have studied him and planned this out and, just like trying to out think Mycroft, there were too many possibilities and he was certain most of them had been thought over and given a counter attack. He looked over at John, who knew him better than anyone, “John if you were to try and take me down, if it was necessary, how would you do it?”

That wasn’t something John even wanted to think about, taking Sherlock down but he could see how it could be useful now. That didn’t make it easier though. “Well...I wouldn’t even attempt taking you by surprise...Close contact, prodding until you might lose composure, however unlikely that might be.” John ran his free hand over his face. “Fuck Sherlock, I don’t know, every fiber in my being is set on protecting you, not hurting you...I am too emotionally involved to be of use here. If I were to take you down I would crowd you, kiss you and snap your neck.” John shivered, he would never do it, never lift a hand against the man he loved and it sickened him that he knew just how much pressure it would take for bones to break.

Sherlock paused, cupped the back of John’s head, understanding exactly how the thought made him feel, and kissed him in a short, soft exchange. “You could easily get me to lose my composure.” He stroked his hand over John’s hair before resuming the brisk walk down to the tube, “And now I know exactly how to handle Sieger. I’ll need you to co-operate for me though, and remind yourself I’m not trying to shelter you.”

“I’ll follow your lead...Unless you’re being exceptionally stupid.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “I know you know how to handle him, you know him better than me and you know how he thinks. If I get a chance though, and he’s being too much of a dick for me to handle...I will act. And I’ll try not to shelter you either.”

“I want to use his temper, he always had a bad one, uncontrollable, and the reason he’s doing this.” Sherlock’s thumb stroked over the back of John’s hand as his mind worked and flew at a million miles an hour, “What I want is for you to lag behind, two or so meters until I start talking to him, then come up behind me, wrap your arms around my waist, really just be as soppy as you can. He’ll want to hit me where it truly hurts so he won’t fire on me until he thinks he can kill you. I’ll keep talking, you can toss things in wherever you like, until he forgets the gun, he always forgets the weapons when he’s angry enough, and starts forward. One of the things Angelo is bringing for us will be a small handgun that straps to the wrist. You’ll have that so you can pull it from one sleeve, aim, and fire on him before he can get to us.”

“Okay, solid plan. I am going to be so cheesy will both get cavities from it.” John had to admit that it could work, using some one’s temper against them almost always worked as long as you could keep your own head cool. “I will shoot to kill...I need to know right now if you want me to do differently.” John pulled a little on Sherlock’s hand to get him to stop for a moment and he reached up with his other hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek. “I love you, just so you know...Before the soppiness begins. I love you Sherlock.”

He leaned his brow against John’s, “I don’t want you to do differently. I...the word ‘father’ meant nothing to me except pain and fear. I never thought ‘paternal’ could be good then,” he pressed his cheek into John’s hand, “Then I met Lestrade. He could have simply left me to be a junkie when I wasn’t solving crimes for him, others had. I was a dirty little secret for more than a few Scotland Yard inspectors, the junkie they brought in when they were desperate. But not Lestrade. He refused my help, refused to let me onto a crime scene so long as he knew I was using, he hunted me down, chased away the dealers I trusted when he could, absolutely hounded me, trying to keep me away from the drugs. I couldn’t understand why, I was over twenty, why bother with me to that degree? Then I almost overdosed. He picked me up, carried me on his back, literally, to his home, and forced me through a detox no matter how truly horrible I acted. Once I’d been sober and clean for a month he made a deal with me. So long as I stayed sober and didn’t smoke anything but plain tobacco, he’d call me in for cases. I wanted the cases so I agreed; I figured he’d simply fall into the same pattern everyone else did and leave me be so long as i held up the bargain. He didn’t though, he still made a pest of himself, badgered me about being so skinny I disappeared if I turned sideways, told me to sleep after cases because he could carry the suspects in the bags under my eyes...” he shook his head, “Just went out of his way to try and look after me. Sieger Holmes helped create me but the closest to an actual father as a father should be that I’ve ever had, is Lestrade.”  
He looked into John’s eyes and squeezed his hand, “If your shot doesn’t kill him, I will.”

John pulled Sherlock close so he could wrap his arms around him. “Don’t worry I’ll shoot to kill...Always do. And it seems I have more to thank Greg for than I ever could have imagine. I’m glad he looked after you, or at least tried to. If he hadn’t who knows, we might have never met that day at Barts.” John breathed out against Sherlock’s neck and released him. “Come on then, let’s go and rid the world of another not very nice man.”

Yes. Yes that was perfect. Relegating one Sieger Holmes to the same position a mad cabbie had occupied and not the nightmare that occasionally disturbed Sherlock’s rare sleep.

_**~to be continued...~** _


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Warning:** _Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually._

**Tales of a Feather.**

**_Chapter Eleven._ **

Sherlock stepped through the door into the flat, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Mrs. Hudson, seated and glaring for all she was worth, at the man who’d sired him and who was holding a gun on her.

“Ah there you are. I was wondering when you’d return Sherlock.” The older man stared disdainfully at his disappointment. That was all Sherlock had ever been, a disappointment, looking far more like a Sherringford than a Holmes and choosing to waste his life on detective work, “Do come in.”

“I believe I am quite comfortable here. Sieger.” He took personal, petty satisfaction at the way the impersonal tone and use of his name made the elder man’s eyes narrow. “Quite a surprise, seeing you in London. I believe there was an agreement in effect to keep you out of England altogether.”

“Null and void considering how base my offspring have become of late. Such disappointments.”

Feeling that he’d given Sherlock enough time, John walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around his slender waist from behind, mouthing at his neck. “What’s taking so long Sherly? I thought we were going to have some dinner before having some _dessert_.” He pretended not to see the gun the older man at the table had, keeping his eyes who tried to make look empty and adoring on Sherlock. 

He’d get even with John over the ‘Sherly’ later but the absolute sin he put in the stress on the word dessert had Sherlock leaning back into him unconsciously, a smile not entirely affected curving his lips, “Mmm we have an unfortunate visitor beloved. Quite a nuisance considering that I was intending to use that honey dust tonight.” Oh the way Sieger went pale around the mouth, the lips tightening in restrained fury, made something dance within Sherlock. 

“Disgusting. Not only are you participating in an unnatural relationship, you’re _slumming_. I had expected better of you. Did I teach you nothing?”

“Hmm, actually I’d have to say that’s exceptionally accurate. You taught me nothing worth knowing. I’m rather certain I deleted it all before I entered Cambridge.”

“Slumming, I’ll have you know that I am a doctor.” John did his best to sound offended, even though he schooled his features into startled surprise at the sight of the gun. He was uncomfortably reminded of Moriarty at that and unconsciously squeezed Sherlock tighter around the waist. “I also have to tell you that there is nothing unnatural about our relationship, it’s all very, very natural. In fact I can barely keep this one here from taking his clothes of anywhere, not that he doesn’t have a nice body but it’s mine...You know what I mean.” He saw Mrs. Hudson hide a smile. John was aware he was laying it on thick but he wanted Sieger to lose his temper.

The sheer volatile rage settling on his sire’s face as his hand shook almost made Sherlock giddy, “Oh very much yours. Nothing I like better than when you prove it to everyone too,” one hand lifted to tap at a vibrant love bite on the side of his neck, “and I get to show off that I’m taken regularly by the Commonwealth’s sexiest doctor.”

Mrs. Hudson couldn’t help but giggle at that, giving Sherlock and John a wink as she realized the plan and joined in, “Oh is this really the time you two? Though I have been meaning to talk to you about the way sound carries in this old house. An old woman needs her sleep and the moaning and screams til four in the morning keep me up.”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Hudson, there’s just no way keeping this quiet. I’ve tried everything. I suppose a ball gag might work but then I do get so much pleasure from this mouth...I mean just look at it.” John reached up and rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s lips. “If it really does bother you I could prescribe you some strong sleeping pills though...Some advantages should be had of being a doctor right?” He blinked innocently. 

Sherlock almost gave away the game by cackling at Sieger’s expression, “John I love you. And you know there are other things to gag me with that would still give you your pleasure.” He sucked one of John’s fingers into his mouth lightly to make the point. He’d have bounced with glee over how well this was working as the gun slowly began to lower if John wasn’t holding him.

“Stop that! I won’t have any son of mine acting in such a way around me!”

“Oh but I’m not a son of yours, by choice. Really the only man I might ever call ‘father’ is Gregory Lestrade though he’ll likely be officially my brother soon.” He smiled lazily, “He and Mycroft are almost desperately adorable.”

John tensed almost invisibly at Sherlock’s love declaration. He couldn’t help but wish that he’d saved those words for when they really mattered. Ah well, he’d get over it. For now he had to keep in character and make Sieger make a mistake. All he needed was a clear shot. The small handgun Angelo had brought was strapped to his wrist and the weight of hit was a comfort. “Oh yes, Mycroft is such a teddy bear when it comes to Greg. I think I’ve even heard whispers of a civil partnership. Speaking of...when are we taking the plunge Sherly? Watson is a much nicer name than Homes.”

Sherlock felt his heart speed up at the thought of marrying John. Oh they’d definitely have to discuss this seriously once Sieger was gone. “Hmm Sherlock Watson, consulting detective. I do like the ring of it. Speaking of rings, present me with one and we’ll discuss a date then so I can finally get shed of the foul name of Holmes.”

And that did it, Sieger dropped the gun and bellowed, charging forward, fist raised to strike.

Before he even knew it, John had the gun in his hand and taking a step out from behind Sherlock he took the shot, the bullet lodging itself in Sieger Holmes’ head. He wasn’t about to take any chances of survival. The body slumped to the floor with a thud and again John wondered if he was really a horrible person deep down because he wasn’t upset at all for having taken another life. “I’m really sorry about the mess Mrs. Hudson; I’ll clean it up for you. For now we better call the police though. Perhaps we should call Mycroft too.”

“No need,” Sherlock walked in, stepping over Sieger’s body to check out the window, “Mycroft’s PA has already arranged and is sending in the cleanup crew.” He turned and gave Mrs. Hudson a warm smile, “Excellent job Mrs. Hudson, you do pick up the threads quite marvelously.”

She laughed and stood up, patting him on the arm, “Not too hard when it’s truth dear. John was the impressive one. Oh! I’d best make tea if we’re expecting company.”

As she bustled away Sherlock met John’s eyes, “Yes John was, as always, remarkable.” He pulled his phone out and sent a text to Mycroft. His PA would inform him of course but at the same time this was something that should come from him.

‘Threat taken out. Anthea sending in clean up. Stay with Lestrade.- SH’

‘Thank you, remember to leave the gun with the cleanup crew, they will take care of it. -M’ Mycroft put his phone away and returned to holding Greg’s hand, waiting for his lover to wake up.

John looked over the body on the floor to Sherlock. “I’m guessing the official story will be that Sieger went back to France then? Your family is more than a little scary.” Said John who had just shot a man through the head. It was completely inappropriate and probably cemented his place in hell but John couldn’t stop the grin he was flashing Sherlock.

Sherlock’s lips twitched and then the deep giggle he only used around John vibrated in his chest. “You fit right in.” He walked back over to John, helping him tuck the gun away just as the footsteps of some of Mycroft’s men came up the stairs.

The leader sighed and looked between Sherlock and the corpse on the floor, “Right, clean up eleven then. Mr. Holmes, if you would please go be seen with Dr. Watson...elsewhere.”

Sherlock hummed, “Of course. Do _not_ disturb any of my experiments.”

“Wouldn’t risk it sir.”

Sherlock pulled John with him past the two men carrying a large black equipment case up the stairs. “Hungry John?”

“Starving, as you so correctly deduced before I hated my lunch and I never get to make those hash browns....I could go for Indian actually. Know any good curry places?” John followed Sherlock down the stairs, really not wanting to know what would go on in their flat. 

“Mmm yes, we should stop by Angelos on the way though, thank him for the help.” He opened the door, shouting a farewell to Mrs. Hudson, then stepped out, his arm snaking around John’s waist and, in a move he’d seen others do and wondered if it was as nice as it seemed, stuck his hand in the doctor’s back pocket. “I meant it you know.”

“Hmm?” John had to admit that he was distracted by Sherlock’s hand in his back pocket, a good kind of distraction though. He looped his arm around Sherlock’s waist in return. “Meant what? That we stop by Angelos? That’s okay; we can stay there and eat if you want to.”

“No John,” he shook his head, “I meant it when I said I love you.” He turned his head to look at John’s face, “I do. I know you’ve known but I just wanted to tell you that up there it wasn’t just to make him angry. I know the timing was...not good?”

John beamed at him. “The timing was bloody perfect; there is no bad timing for those words when you mean them.” John stopped walking so he could lean up and kiss Sherlock in the middle of the street, not giving a fuck about who might see them. “Thank you for saying the words, they are nice to hear but you never ever have to feel pressured to say them. You show me every day.”

“Yes I know. Still it felt good to say it.” He brushed his lips over John’s again, “I meant the other thing too, marrying you.”

“I want that too, Gods I want to call you husband. I would never steal your name though...If you were serious about the ring, then I think we should pick them out together.” John’s smile was so wide it was threatening to split his face right now, his heart was thundering. This was all he wanted, he was so happy it almost scared him.

“Mmm nothing ridiculous though. Simple does the trick.” His smile, by slight contrast was gentle, content.

“No really? Because I was thinking huge diamond rings.” John couldn’t help the teasing note. “I know I am a jumper sort of man but I hope I’m not ridiculous, simple all the way is what I want too. Perhaps silver or platinum...I think that would suit you better than gold.” He looked at Sherlock’s hand, those long, elegant fingers. Fuck but the thought of his ring on there, it made his stomach flip.

“Silver, platinum reacts dangerously with certain gases,” he pulled them into a walk again, “I doubt you want an uncontrolled explosion in the kitchen.”

“No, the controlled explosions you cause are more than enough.” John chuckled and fell into step with Sherlock’s long-legged gait easily enough. “Good thing I’m not a surgeon anymore, if I was then I wouldn’t be able to wear the ring on my finger.”

“Do you miss it? Performing surgery?” Sherlock had always wondered that because he couldn’t imagine having part of what he did, part of who he was, a part he’d fought and trained to cultivate, just being taken away from him. So he sometimes grew concerned that it might hurt John more than his strong doctor let on.

“Sometimes yes. I don’t suppose I should put it like this but it is an incredible rush, to be able to save someone’s life like that. Or even just the routine surgeries...It’s a special feeling and I was damned good at it too. Before I left for the army I had offers from every large hospital in the country. I don’t regret my choices though...I could never have been some posh private practice sort of surgeon anyway. It was a part of my life but now I have another one. Neither is better, just different.”

“Just so long as you’re happy, it’s good.” That was Sherlock’s world as far as he was concerned. Things were good or not good, moral and immoral or legal and illegal didn’t matter to him. John’s opinion of something being good or not was where he kept his compass. If something wasn’t ‘good’ in John’s mind then Sherlock would move heaven and hell and the earth off its axis to fix it.

“I’m happy, you and the life we have together makes me happy. Kidnappings and all.” John meant it too. Before he met Sherlock everyday had been a struggle to make it from dawn to nightfall without breaking down. It was with Sherlock that he was truly alive.

“You and I might have to turn that table on Mycroft if he tries to be an idiot once Lestrade is better.” He gave John a wicked smile, reassured, “It’d be fun, kidnapping Mycroft for a change wouldn’t it?”

“It would be brilliant, though if he really turns idiotic and distant once Greg is better then I really will both break his nose and kick him in the bollocks.” John could see Mycroft wrapping himself in his ‘caring is not an advantage’ bullshit and remove himself from Greg, well John wouldn’t stand for that.

“We can record it and send a gift wrapped copy to Lestrade,” Sherlock rather thought that the DI would make sure Mycroft didn’t do anything so foolish though. Not after all the effort to snag him in the first place. “The Indian restaurant is a block from Angelos so a quick stop and we’ll get that curry.”

“Right,” As if in response, John’s stomach grumbled violently. “I want to thank Angelo, he was very quick and competent when he handed me the gun.” He grinned. “It looks as if you’re forgiven for taking someone else to dinner there.” John still found how Angelo had acted that evening extremely amusing.

Sherlock pouted, “We still need to explain that,” when John only laughed he harrumphed but squeezed the bum cheek under his hand. They would be fine, now Lestrade only needed to make sure of the same with Mycroft.

**oOoOoOo**

Greg’s first thought on regaining consciousness was something along the lines of expressing pain, in very blue language, but then his second was _’Mycroft!’_. His eyes flew open and he started trying to sit up, only for pain to burst in his chest again and the blue language to come into verbal being.

“Stay still you infuriating man. What do you think you are doing?” Mycroft leaned forward in the plush chair he had dragged to the edge of Greg’s bed, placing a very gentle hand on the other man’s shoulder. Of course he had arranged for Greg to get the best private room the hospital had to offer and he had been sitting with him the whole time. “Should I call the nurse? Now that you are awake, you should be able to get more morphine.” Mycroft really did not like the idea of Greg in pain. 

Mycroft’s presence had Greg relaxing back against the hospital bed, his hand coming up to curl around Mycroft’s wrist as he studied his lover’s face, “Are you...alright?” Jesus it was fucking hard to talk and breathe, gunshot to the chest he remembered, probably a sucking wound, so his lung had probably collapsed and been re-inflated. That didn’t much matter to him; he was more concerned with making sure Mycroft hadn’t been attacked. “Did he...try to shoot...you?”

“No, that would have been counterproductive to his objective.” Mycroft’s voice was calm and controlled but he moved the wrist Greg’s fingers were curled around so that he could hold his hand firmly. “Sieger had a message for me, you were it. He left when he had delivered it. He will not return.”

Greg worked his fingers tightly between Mycroft’s, “Not...safe. Have to...find...arrest...” his eyes narrowed at the look on Mycroft’s face, which for anyone else would be the perfect blank mask but not for Greg, not anymore. He couldn’t get the breath to sigh so instead he squeezed his lover’s hand, “Dead...then. Sherlock...or John.” It wasn’t a question he knew who exactly would have taken someone who shot him in Mycroft’s home down, “Cover...for them?”

“Everything is being taken care of.” He ran his thumb over the back of Greg’s hand. “I am not in the habit of leaving loose ends, neither is my brother. You just concentrate on getting better.” Speaking of Sherlock, he reached for his phone and sent a quick text off that Greg had woken up. Mycroft should say something, apologize for being the reason Greg was shot but he honestly didn’t know what to say.

He nodded and squeezed Mycroft’s hand, “You...stay...with me.”

“Yes, I’ll stay, not going anywhere.” Where else would he go? Mycroft continued to hold Greg’s hand when the nurse came in to administer the morphine that would help Greg sleep without pain. 

“Always. I...mean...it. Don’t be...stupid and try...to leave...me. I’ll...follow...cuff you to...the bed.”

Of course he’d had to fall for the one man, Sherlock didn’t count, who could read him like an open book. The thought had crossed his mind, it would protect them both if they ended things but he couldn’t. Couldn’t go back to how life had been before Gregory Lestrade. “We can revisit the cuff me to the bed idea when you’re all better again...I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” he let his eyes slide shut, “have to talk...when I...get out of...hospital...’N wits about...me.” His fingers remained tightly linked to Mycroft’s even as the rest of him began to drift off.

Mycroft leaned back in the chair, keeping his fingers laced with Greg and picked up his phone again with his free hand. He’d need his laptop and some files. If he was staying here then the office would simply have to come to him.

**oOoOoOo**

Two weeks, a sling to keep his right side still, and several frazzled nurses later, Greg was stepping into the house with Mycroft behind him, amusement still on his face at the relief the hospital staff had shown at his leaving. It wasn’t so much him they’d been glad to get shed of, especially considering the number of people who’d tried to flirt with him; it was Mycroft and his peevishness. “God it’s good to be home.”

“Mmm.” Mycroft couldn’t agree more, it felt much safer having Greg home behind walls where Mycroft could be himself. Also it had been highly irritating that everyone and their uncle had been under the misconception that Greg was up for grabs. “Come.” He led Greg into the living room that had never really been used before. Now a plush couch stood against the wall and a large flat screen TV was mounted on the wall. Mycroft had never seen the use for television but he knew Greg liked to watch the games. “Sit.”

The inspector did as ordered, pulling out his phone to check the messages, nodding when he received a status report on the unit. Then he turned the phone off and set it aside. Until he was cleared for return to duty it didn’t need to be on when Mycroft was here. “Happy to. I don’t get to be lazy all that often.”

“Well now you are ordered to be lazy.” Mycroft sat down on the couch as well crossing one leg over the other and reaching for the large cups of tea they’d stopped to buy before they came home. Mycroft was not exactly the nurturing type but he was trying...In his own way. 

Greg took his cup from Mycroft and took a sip, sighing in contentment, “God that’s better. Hospital tea is swill from the bowels of hell if you ask me.” He studied Mycroft, “How’s the Empire? Rolling along alright?”

“Britannia still rules the waves.” Mycroft’s tone was dry. There were a few things he would have to see to shortly but other than that there weren’t really much difference in running operations from the club or from a hospital room. As long as he had his computer and Anthea he could be the shadow king pretty much anywhere.

“Good. Then I propose music rather than telly and comfortable cuddling for the day.” Greg sipped at his tea again, “You deserve a little lazy time too.”

“Deserving perhaps, affording it is another matter.” Mycroft leaned over to kiss Greg before getting up from the couch, he knew this wasn’t what his lover had meant but Mycroft wanted to play for Greg. He sat down at the piano in the corner and started to play some Beethoven softly, fingers moving comfortably over the keys.

Greg’s lips curved as Mycroft worked his way through a couple pieces until he’d finished his tea and, just as his lover began to play Moonlit Sonata, he got up to stand behind him, draping his free arm over Mycroft’s chest and dropping a kiss on the back of his neck. “I mentioned a talk when I got out of hospital. It’s more of a ‘let me tell you this, you don’t have to say anything back’ sort of deal though.” He rested his chin on top of Mycroft’s head, “I’ve got a dangerous job and if you don’t have a few people out to get you then I’m a monkey’s uncle so we’ve the both of us got enemies who might want to snuff us at any time. Because of that, I don’t want this going unsaid. I don’t want to look back and regret that I didn’t tell you if something happen.” He rested his hand over Mycroft’s heart, “I love you Mycroft. Have for a long time.”

Since Greg had his hand over his heart he had to feel how it stuttered and then beat as if it was trying to break out of his chest. It was one thing knowing something and another getting to hear it, getting it put out there in the real world. It was ridiculous how hard it was to reply, they way the words stuck in his throat. He felt them, God did he feel them. “I...I love you too.” He didn’t turn around. “I am not good at relationships. I will make mistakes, put work first at times and no doubt I will manage to piss you off on several occasions but I do love you.”

He felt and he heard the sincerity in Mycroft’s words and smiled into the tamed hair, “I know, and I’m not exactly Mr. Perfect either but we’re right. So we’ll fight it out occasionally, make up, and keep going.”

“Just be aware that once I have you I will never let go. I am possessive, obsessive and judging from the inane attempts those cretins at the hospital made to flirt with you I think I may just be a fraction jealous too. Know what you are getting into.” Mycroft tilted his head backwards, resting it on Greg’s good shoulder and baring his throat.

He dipped his own head and pressed a kiss to the exposed skin, “I knew as soon as I came here to show you my piercings. I’m in this for the long haul Mycroft. I can handle you being possessive, obsessive, and jealous.”

“Then we are in accord. Now go sit back down before you upset your stitches.” Mycroft got up and followed Greg back to the couch and all but wrestled him down and pulled him close so that the DI was mostly resting against Mycroft’s chest. “I hope you’ll move all of your things here, terminate the lease on your flat. If you want something changed then we can do that...I...I want this to be home.”

Greg smiled and settled happily against Mycroft, “It is home. My lease is up in a week anyway, I was going to ask if you wanted me to move in sooner but shite happened didn’t it?” He closed his eyes, still tiring easily, “We can bribe Sherlock and John into getting my things before the landlord tosses them out.”

“We could do that, if you want every item you own turned over and deduced in all the way they can be deduced. Or we could use my men who will do it for free and with no questions asked.” Mycroft reached up and ran his fingers through silver hair. 

Greg snorted, “Not like Sherlock hasn’t already seen everything I own and no offense to your men but I’d rather Sherlock and John do it. It’s a ‘strangers in my space’ thing.”

“Then we’ll bribe them to do it. They are so tooth-achingly in love right now anyway so it should be easy to manipu...I mean ask them to do it.” Mycroft folded, he wanted Greg to be comfortable and if he wanted his brother getting his things then Mycroft would see to it that it would happen.

He chuckled, “Manipulate away Mycroft.” He began drifting off, secure and comfortable in his lover’s arms.

Mycroft stayed where he was, still raking his fingers through Greg’s hair and holding the other man close to his chest, watching his breathing deepen. For now the Empire could wait, Greg was more important than anything else. He would soon text his brother about cleaning Greg’s flat out but for now he simply wanted to enjoy the feeling of having the man he loved in his arms, alive and on the mend.

_**~to be continued...~** _


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Warning:** _Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually._

**Tales of a Feather.**

**_Chapter Twelve._ **

Sherlock studied the little crowd with disdainful amusement, glancing over at his brother, who was standing up for him, “I find this all quite ridiculous you know. Why did I agree to a ceremony to appeal to the sentiments of others? It would have been much more efficient to simply inform everyone after the fact.”

“What I wonder is how you managed to convince Dr. Watson to be the one walking down the aisle so to speak. He doesn’t exactly strike me as a blushing bride type.” Mycroft was much more open with his amusement, after all this was Sherlock and John’s circus and not his. “And you did it for the people who care about you. Look at Mrs. Hudson, already crying her heart out with bliss for ‘her boys’. Now she will have married ones as well.”

“John was the one who made the decision to be walking down the aisle, so to speak, not I.” He didn’t mention that John had insisted on that because he heard him pondering how valid an experiment it would be to wear a dress in order to test the reactions of their guests. He spotted Molly Hooper beaming at him and dabbing at her eyes. She’d not brought a plus one. Perhaps it was a dangerous thing but he felt oddly...concerned that she was alone. Perhaps one of the people John had invited from his old unit or his family might strike her interest?

“How did Lestrade take the tuxedo fitting by the way?” John had squirmed and looked more uncomfortable than a dog in a bath before he’d just walked out and promised Sherlock that he had a better alternative than a tuxedo.

“As soon as the actual tailor left he took it very well indeed.” Mycroft couldn’t help himself, how often did he have the chance to tease his little brother like this, in a place where Sherlock couldn’t up and leave. “Really, he was a good sport about it and look at him, he looks edible.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “Please Mycroft, just as I’ve no interest in you knowing about my sex life, I’ve less than no interest in what stimulates you.” He studied the way Lestrade sat critically, “Things are well? No lingering problems from Sieger’s attack?”

“I think things are well, physio-therapy is going well and Greg doesn’t seem too bothered by it.” Mycroft grew serious. “I think it is harder for me than for him. Not physically of course but it seems I cannot put it out of my mind. Even though I know there is no chance of Sieger returning. Let’s save that mine field of a conversation for another time though, this is a happy day. Even Mother showed up along with John’s sister, she even looks sober.” He looked at his brother from the corner of his eye. “Do you have something to do with that?” 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock studied his nails nonchalantly. He studied the way Harry scooted and shifted and twitched, recognizing the signs of an addiction. He often wondered why John, knowing of his issues with drugs and always so disturbed by Harry’s alcoholism, had ever given him a chance yet looking at Harry now he realized it was because he, unlike John’s sister, knew how bad his addiction was and strove to fight against it. 

His gaze lit on the military men and women who were grinning like mad hyenas. He’d met the others in John’s unit when they’d arrived two days ago and reconfirmed that John was a singular man as most of the unit members were boring. The blond woman however, who was currently tossing him a wink, was amusing. Macalynn, Macy for short, Andrews had greeted John with a kiss that had left his spluttering then planted one on him as well, calling him absolutely adorable and leaving Sherlock stymied for once. The only one of the unit still living and not there was the gregarious, and quite honestly a bit dim, Ryan Davies called Rag.

Said man was helping John straighten the medals and lines on his dress uniform. “Nervous Johnny boy?”

“No, not really. I have never been surer of anything in my life. I want the man standing out there waiting for me and I want him for forever. This whole ceremony thing is a little daunting but what it means...Gods I want that.” John was steady and calm, not a single shake or tremor had made itself known so far and he hoped it would stay that way.

“Good job that.” Rag circled John to make sure everything was in place with military precision, “He’s rude, snippy, impatient, demanding, reckless, bit of a child from what I can tell, and absolutely stupid in love with you. He’s just what you need I’d say.” He faced John and pulled something from his pocket, “I spoke to Billy’s parents and they want you to have these,” he pressed the steel circles of a pair of dog tags into John’s hand, “You and your guy did right by him John. Billy’d be happy for you.”

John tightened his hand around the dog tags, feeling his heart clench. “I don’t know about doing right by him, if I’d done things right then he would be here, hitting on everything that moves and embarrassing us with the worst speech in history. Thank you though, having these means a lot, at least a part of him his here.” John smiled both with loss, and happiness. “And thank you all for being here. I’m so glad you could make it. You guys are my family.”

Rag pat him on the shoulder, “Feeling’s mutual. But you know you can’t control what other people do Johnny, Billy’s death wasn’t your fault. Matter of fact if you hadn’t been there when he stepped on the landmine and helped to fight off that ambush he’d have been gone a lot sooner. No bad thoughts today. Today you’re marrying that ‘adorable’ bloke that’s got Macy all charmed.”

“Macy is charmed by everyone.” The tone on John’s voice was warm with fondness, Macy was a remarkable person and he loved her dearly. “You’re right though, no dark thoughts today.” He fidgeted a little, not with nerves but with impatience. “Do you have the time? Are we about ready to do this thing?”

Rag grinned, “There’s our TC Watson.” He pulled out his mobile, “Yeah it’s time. Now go on out there and let’s get this circus underway.”

“Right,” John straightened his bow-tie one last time and ran his hands over the red lapels on his dress uniform to make sure everything was in order before donning the hat, red ribbon around it matching his lapels and waistcoat. “Let’s do this then.” 

Rag would stand up with him so he left a little earlier, then John walked out the door to walk down the aisle and meet up with Sherlock. He knew Sherlock hadn’t seen him in his dress uniform before and though he wasn’t a vain man by any means he still hope that Sherlock would like the sight.

Sherlock was already beginning to show signs of boredom by the time Rag made it to his position and the music started. Both he and John had made it clear exactly what they’d do if any sort of bridal music was played. Just because John had chosen to walk up the aisle to Sherlock did not make him a woman not to mention the insipid bridal march made Sherlock want to gag. The familiar strains of Here’s Health Unto His Majesty began to play and Sherlock had to chuckle. That was until John snapped into view, at which point Sherlock found it a little difficult to keep himself presentable and not just tell everyone things had been postponed. Because John in that dress uniform did things to his system that were borderline obscene.

John met Sherlock’s eyes and held them as he walked down the aisle. God the man was beautiful, lean lines showed off to perfection in the tuxedo he was wearing. It was a marvel to know that he would spend the rest of his life with Sherlock, he would wear Sherlock’s ring and Sherlock would wear his for the entire world to see. He reached his beloveds side soon enough and sent him a small private smile as they both turned to the man who would bind them together.

Greg caught Mycroft’s eye over Sherlock’s head and gave him a smirk as the officiate prattled on and on about metaphysical connections and deep and abiding love past the mortal coil. He had a bet with his lover. Mycroft had said there was no possibly way Sherlock would manage to hold his tongue through the traditional twaddle currently being spouted, Greg had bet him that Sherlock wouldn’t so much as frown at the officiate. And so far Greg was winning.

The reason was simple, Sherlock was too absorbed in studying every last minute detail of John in full dress uniform to bother with expressing his annoyance at the stupid rant. John looked edible in that uniform, absolutely edible. No wonder he had that nickname if this was how he looked in uniform, dear God. His eyes skipped over the medals and achievements pinned to the uniform and his lips curved in just the slightest bit of self-satisfaction at the number of medals, decorations, and honors as well as how high the honors were. He’d guessed correctly about every, single honor.

John was well aware of the way Sherlock was studying him, it made his lips twitch and his heart beat just a little quicker. He wished the officiate could speed things up and that he could reach for Sherlock’s hand. Ah well he would get to touch him soon enough. 

Mycroft was surprised and a little impressed that Sherlock was behaving, Mycroft prided himself on his patience but even he thought the officiate was the most boring, long winded man he’d had the displeasure of listening too. It seemed he was determined to go over every detail of the traditional vows. Where on earth had Mummy dug him up. Mycroft tuned the man out and turned his attention to Greg in his tux instead, he would enjoy peeling that off him later on and lick him all over.

Sherlock knew, somewhat, that his mother had dug up the worst officiate possible in the hopes of him changing his mind once everything was laid out in ponderous detail but it wasn’t going to happen and finally, finally thank God, he and John were speaking their vows to each other and slipping the rings on each other’s hands.

His heart was in his eyes as John gripped Sherlock’s hand and slid the plain silver ring onto a long, beautiful finger. Sherlock had the most gorgeous hands, John used to watch them when he was playing his violin, performing his experiments or just gesturing with them. He loved those hands, loved having them on him. When the time for the kiss came, John tuned out everything and everyone around them, focusing only on Sherlock as he leaned forward to kiss his _husband_. 

Sherlock’s lips were curved and he cupped the back of John’s head as he slid them over his husband’s. Husband. It had a pleasant flavor in the back of his mind, settling in his mind palace with firm, affectionate finality. He’d have scandalized the guests quite happily and taken the kiss to deeper territory but he rather preferred to keep the passion to themselves. He was just that possessive. So he ended the kiss chastely with a soft whispered promise of later.

“I love you.” It was only mouthed against Sherlock’s lips before they turned around to receive their guests’ well wishes. This time he did lace his fingers with Sherlock’s and he smiled as Macy and the rest of his squad both clapped and whistled. Harry and Mrs. Holmes looked moderately amused but John could not care less, he was the happiest man on earth right now and no one nor anything was going to ruin that for him. Now they had a reception to go to and then he was going to lock himself in with Sherlock for as long as the other man could stand it before his mind craved a puzzle to solve.

Greg watched them walk down the aisle together and went to join Mycroft with a grin, “I win.”

“It would appear that you did yes.” Mycroft sighed but amusement glittered in his eyes. “We never did discuss properly what you wished for in case of a win, what am I going to have to do?” 

Greg’s eyes gleamed in wicked amusement. “Meet my family,” he’d been coaxing a very stubborn Mycroft toward that end a while and the man always managed to wiggle his way out of it. Not this time though. His family was a big part of his life, the kids especially no matter that his ex had gotten custody. He still loved his kids and spent time with them whenever he could and he wanted them to get used to Mycroft as well.

“Very well, never let it be said that I don’t stand by my word.” Mycroft tried to sound flippant but he was nervous beyond belief. He knew how much Gregory’s children meant to him, what if they didn’t like him? Mycroft was aware that he wasn’t perceived as a very friendly or warm person. He didn’t know anything about children, didn’t really like children very much, had always found them loud and annoying. What if Greg finally realized he wasn’t worth the trouble?

Greg reached out and took Mycroft’s hand, “They don’t bite...not anymore, and they need to start getting used to you and you to them because I’m keeping you Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft gave him a small smile, small but real, the sort of smile he only gifted to Greg. “I know you’re right, I do want to meet them, I am just nervous that I will not be able to meet your expectations. I am not a pleasant or easy man, I have no idea how to even speak to children. I will try my very best though, for you.”

Greg squeezed his hand, “You talk to them same as you do me...well in polite company. If they don’t understand something they’ll ask and all you have to do is explain. Or you can ask Sherlock for pointers,” he gave Mycroft a grin, “They love him and he’s just himself around them so I think you’re safe enough.”

“Sherlock has always had a way with children, they usually adore him. I think it is because they haven’t been learned to limit their minds yet, they understand him and he them.” Mycroft walked with Greg to the hall the reception was held in, he would not worry himself sick over the meeting with Greg’s family tonight. It would happen as it happened and Mycroft would really do his best. He wanted Greg’s children to like him, that was a novel feeling, usually he didn’t care what people thought of him but he loved Greg, he wanted to love his family as well.

He chuckled, “Well they certainly do understand being _bored_. God the first time they met was a disaster. They dissolved half the kids’ wardrobe with cola, mentos, and pennies in under five minutes.” He shook his head, “And I just couldn’t yell, I really couldn’t because all of them, Sherlock included, just looked so...bloody happy and excited. It was the Sherlock case gleam multiplied by four without a dead body anywhere in the vicinity.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but chuckle, though there was a slight shadow in his eyes. “Sherlock never had much of a chance to be a child as a child, I’m glad he had found. You saved him you know, in all the ways that matter. He loves you and I love you for it. Well I love you full stop but there are no words for how grateful I am for what you have done for my little brother, what you continue to do for him. For believing in him. 

He looked up ahead at Sherlock, looking absolutely bemused as John’s unit crowded around and welcomed him into the ‘family’, “Don’t know why but I just couldn’t let him flounder and I’m a stubborn bastard. Just had to wait him out.”

“Not many people have the patience to do that, with his new husband I think it brings the tally up to a total of...well two.” Mycroft smiled at Sherlock’s expression as Macy threw her arms around him and kissed him soundly smack on the lips again before doing the same to John, she certainly seemed the friendly sort, especially considering she was a soldier. “Shall we go and offer our congratulations? I have a new brother to welcome into the family fold.”

Greg grinned, “Yeah, we’d better get in the congratulations while we can because I can’t see Sherlock or John hanging round for long. Not with the looks they were giving each other through the ceremony.”

“You are quite right about that, Sherlock is definitely not the patient type and in this situation neither is John.” Mycroft smiled. “I’m really happy for them, I was worried Sherlock wouldn’t find his person but he did.” They moved across the floor and stood in the short line that had formed in front of the newlyweds. “You alright? No pain I hope?” He sent Greg a worried look, very much protective of the man he loved.

He didn’t mind, so long as Mycroft didn’t try and screw with his job, and gave him a smile, “Not even a twinge and I’ll be proving it to you later,” his smile turned wicked, sensual, and steamy, “So don’t shun the cake, you’ll be needing the energy.”

“You really think I will be having cake in front of my brother? That would give him fodder for the next year, no thank you. I promise I will have plenty of energy for anything you have in mind. Earlier during the ceremony I thought about how much I would like taking that tuxedo off and lick you from head to toe.” Mycroft’s smile was slow and dirty.

Greg’s eyes traveled up and down Mycroft slowly and he licked his lips, “Oh I’m looking forward to it,” he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, murmuring, “A naughty night in with the man I love. I call that perfection.”

“A statement I agree with very much.” Mycroft kissed him again, aware that his mother’s eyes turned away from them with displeasure. He loved his mother very much but if it came down to it he would choose Greg every time. Finally it was their turn to congratulate the happy couple and Mycroft shocked himself by stepping close and giving Sherlock a hug. 

Sherlock absolutely gawked at his brother, patting his back awkwardly, aware of Greg shaking John’s hand and grinning at them. “Not that this isn’t...interesting, but what may I ask brought it on?”

“I am happy for you Sherlock, for you both. I do love you.” Mycroft cleared his throat awkwardly, not knowing what was coming over him. He didn’t handle situations like this well. He shifted to shake John’s hand, making room for Greg to congratulate Sherlock.

Sherlock was now just _staring_ at his brother, until a poke in the side brought his attention to Lestrade.

“Cut that out. People change Sherlock, you did when John came in to your life, so can your brother.”

“I’m not entirely certain he’s not celebrating because I am someone else’s problem now,” it was a low murmur, carefully pitched to keep Mycroft from hearing.

Greg snorted, “You’ll never be ‘someone else’s problem’ not to him. Just a bit less of a worry since he knows you’re looked after.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, “By the way I owe you for behaving during the ceremony.”

A suspicious look came from the consulting detective, “A bet I’m assuming?”

“Yeah, Mycroft’s got to meet my family now. Get that look off your face Sherlock.” Greg shook his head at the unholy glee in the man’s eyes, “You are _not_ allowed to give my kids pointers on driving Mycroft insane. It’s bad enough you’ve gotten Joe into hacking codes.”

John heard the last part and had to chuckle, he’d only met Greg’s children a handful of times but they were adorable and crafty. “Be thankful it’s only code hacking, he could teach them about crime scenes and serial killers...Soon they would solve your cases for you.” He thought it was a good thing that Mycroft would meet them, it showed that the older Holmes was truly invested in the relationship, not that John had doubted that. 

“Too late,” Greg’s voice was deadpan, “Richard’s going in that direction, already going onto websites dealing with famous cold cases and insulting the living daylights out of experts...and he’s right too. You,” he pointed at Sherlock, “are an influence.” His lips twitched in a restrained smile. He didn’t call him a bad influence because he wasn’t. Greg was proud that his kids were keeping their curiosity and sharp minds thanks to hero worship of Sherlock.

The pride in Greg’s voice shone through loud and clear, Mycroft was very happy Sherlock had such a close relationship with Greg’s kids but it did intimidate him a little as well. How was he supposed to keep up with cold cases and code hacking. He supposed he could teach them how to overthrow a country or how to start and end wars in silence but those weren’t exactly encouraged skills. 

John found the light flush on Sherlock’s high cheekbones adorable and just had to reach up and kiss him for it. 

Sherlock made a happy hum. Anything that had John kissing him was a good thing in his opinion, and he had to admit that he was...flattered that Lestrade didn’t mind him influencing his children. He nipped at john’s bottom lip before breaking the kiss, “Yes well I’ve not yet corrupted Holly now have I?”

Greg shook his head, “Matter of time likely. We’ll let you two greet the rest of your guests, sooner it’s over the sooner you can get to and leave the reception.”

“Ah yes, something to strive for.”

“Can’t wait.” John added. “This is lovely but...Well I can’t wait to be able to leave.” 

Mycroft scoffed. “Isn’t that how newlyweds are supposed to feel?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a keycard. “Here, it goes to the top suite at the Dorchester, I thought you might want to spend your wedding night without your landlady downstairs. The suite is yours for the weekend.

Sherlock took the card, “Thank you.”

Greg smiled and nudged Mycroft on, “I’ll be seeing you next time you get bored I imagine Sherlock, I’m back on duty next week. For now though, we’ll head to the reception hall.”

“Thank you for coming and for sharing this day with us.” It was something that John said to all guests but this time he really, honestly meant it. Greg was family, had been for a long time and John was working on getting over his anger with Mycroft. The man had paid for the mistake he’d made with Moriarty and he was Sherlock’s brother. 

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world John.” 

“Congratulations again.” Mycroft nodded his head at them and after taking Greg’s hand once more they walked to the reception hall.

“I never thought I would witness Mycroft Holmes showing affection for someone that openly.” John watched them, how Mycroft leaned into Greg as they walked. “I’m happy for them, Greg looks very happy don’t you think?”

Sherlock nodded, “He does yes. I suppose it’s not good that I enjoyed the slight panic of my brother at the thought of dealing with Lestrade’s children.”

“Psssht, he’s your brother, of course you enjoy the thought of him panicking and floundering a little. It’s only human.” John grinned but it turned a little stiff when his own older sibling was in front of them. He gave Harry a slightly awkward hug and thanked her for coming.

Harry eyed Sherlock with vague distaste and disgruntlement. The bloody bastard had threatened her with enforced rehab if she didn’t come to the wedding and stay sober for the day. She’d have told him to piss off if two suited men hadn’t shown up at her job and made it clear that the threat was enforceable. So here she was, miserably sober, and miserably single too as Clara hadn’t agreed to be her plus one. “You look happy John.”

“I am happy Harry, happier than I’ve ever been.” John glanced up at the man beside him, still having an urge to pinch himself to make sure it was real, that it was really happening. “I hope you are well as well.” He did care for his sister, he just didn’t like her very much as bad a brother as that made him.

She shrugged, “Good as can be expected. Mum’s been making noises about visiting me again soon.” She didn’t like her mother’s visits, mainly because they were too long. Their mother had moved to America after John had joined the army so they didn’t get to see her often and she liked to cling when they did.

John made a face, just as with his sister, his relationship with their mother was...complicated. “Blimey, is it that time of year again. Why don’t we join forces just for once and put her up in a hotel? We can say you have a water leak or something.”

She snorted, “She’ll make noises about just staying with you in your flat to save money...” she paused and considered, “On second thought I say do it if the body parts in the fridge stories are true. Nothing will send her screaming into a hotel room faster.”

John chuckled at that, he could picture his mother opening the fridge to find a head or a collection of tongues in different stages of decay. He doubted she would handle it as well as Mrs. Hudson did. “Well work it out somehow, I won’t let you carry that load alone. She can’t stay with us though, we don’t have room. My old room is being turned into a proper lab for Sherlock and I doubt anyone would want to sleep there once it is all set up.” John could hear the pride in his own voice as he spoke about his husband, oh he really had it bad and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sherlock felt a shiver of happiness, as he always did when John expressed pride in him, “I’m certain Mycroft can help arrange a hotel room for your mother and likely convince her it was her idea to stay in one.”

Harry eyed him, “I’ll bloody well kiss the feet of the person who can do that. Look I’m holding up the line and I’m hungry,” she was always starving when she couldn’t drink, “so I’ll go on ahead to the reception. We can plan out the mummy battle later.”

“Yes, thank you for coming Harry. We’ll talk later.” John didn’t hug her again, he thought both of them would prefer it that way and watched her walk to the reception before he and Sherlock suddenly found themselves with an armful of sniffling and excited Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and let her prattle and snivel on out of fondness for the woman though he’d much rather get this inane receiving line over and done with to sooner abscond with John. He had plans for the hotel room.

**oOoOoOo**

John was aware that he was gaping but he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t believe people actually lived like this. He shuddered to think about how much this suite must cost. “Look at it Sherlock, look at the bathroom. We could almost fit our entire flat in there, it’s crazy.” John was still in his dress uniform and Sherlock was still in his tux, it finally felt as if he could breathe again though, now that they were on their own.

“Is it?” Sherlock looked around the suite, loosening his tie before coming up behind John, running his hands over the broad shoulders, careful over the subtle epaulets, “It’s a good thing ‘crazy’ works for us then is it not?” He lowered his head to nose at John’s neck, smiling.

“Mmhmm, it is a very good thing.” John angled his neck to give Sherlock room before turning around so that he could wrap his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pull him down for a kiss. “God, you look gorgeous in a tux, I just want to eat you up.”

He dragged his mouth against John’s, sucking as he pulled away and purred, “Then there are not words for how you look in this uniform,” he kissed his way to John’s ear, knowing exactly what sucking on his earlobe did to him, “I very nearly embarrassed all the guests as soon as you appeared in it.” His hands ran down the jacket side and around to cup the firm globes of John’s arse.

John shivered, his earlobes were a major weak spot. A kiss, lick or nip there equaled an instant hard-on. “Well, embarrassing or not, it might have livened up the ceremony a little.” John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s back. “I’m glad you could keep yourself calm though...Only I can see you like this.” 

Sherlock slid his leg in between John’s thighs and pressed up, a wicked smile twitching at the corners of his lips at the growing hardness, “That is the point. This part of me,” he nibbled and sucked on the sensitive lobe, “is only for you.” Only John got to see him lose control, to see him give way to the emotions he’d once convinced himself he didn’t have, to see him just let go and play.

A low, guttural moan escaped John’s throat and he ground against Sherlock’s thigh, looking for some friction for his rapidly swelling arousal. His husband was the sexiest man on earth, Sherlock’s voice alone drove John man. “You’re mine just as I am yours, all yours.” John pulled Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers so that he could get to the warm, soft skin of Sherlock’s back. He raked his fingers gently over naked skin as he continued to rock against Sherlock.

He shifted, fingers going to the brass buttons on the jacket, “I love your touch, your hands on my skin. I love the way it makes me unravel and puts me back together.”

“I love putting my hands on you, touching you, feeling you under my palm and fingertips.” John’s voice was a hoarse whisper as he slipped Sherlock’s tuxedo jacket off his shoulders and let it drop the marble floor of the bathroom. “You are so beautiful Sherlock, every single inch of you.”

False modesty didn’t work for him so Sherlock didn’t demure. Instead he spread the jacket open to splay his hands over the crisp white shirt beneath, “And I love getting _my_ hands on _you_ too.” He licked and sucked down John’s neck, “You’re so hard all over, like the statue of David come to like, made flesh just for me,” he pushed the dress jacket off, hearing the clank of medals on the floor as he began working on the buttons of John’s shirt.

John didn’t agree with Sherlock but for some reason this incredible man found his scarred and worn body attractive and John wasn’t about to jinx that by pointing out all his flaws. John quickly unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt as well and pushed it open so that he could splay his hands over Sherlock’s chest, feeling his nipples harden beneath his palms. He had his head thrown back to give Sherlock free access to his neck as his hands traced ribs and muscles all the way down to sharp hipbones and back up again.

Sherlock actually purred like some great cat being stroked as he eased John’s shirt open and down his arms. His mouth skated over his husband’s Adam’s apple and he hummed, flicking his tongue out, “You used the razor today, not the electric.” He nipped at skin not quite stubbled yet, “I’m always of two minds with that. I love watching you shave with the razor, to see you expose more and more of your skin in long,” he licked up John’s throat, “slow strips. But then I miss the feel of your stubble against my skin, leaving behind evidence that you’ve kissed me even when you don’t leave me with a love bite.” He raked his fingers down John’s chest, lightly scratching with his nails.

John moaned, loving the feeling of Sherlock’s nails and mouth against his skin. “I wanted to take extra care today, be smooth. I will leave my marks on you though Sherlock, I love marking you, seeing visible evidence of what we’ve done.” He was practically vibrating with want, his mouth watering with longing for his husband. Not giving his trousers a second thought, John fell down on his knees on the floor, mouthing at Sherlock’s abs, thrusting his tongue in and out of Sherlock’s shallow navel before nuzzling his cheek and nose against his husband’s clothed erection.

A soft groan came from him and he arched his back, both offering himself up to John and stretching back just enough to start filling the lavishly sized bathtub. “You know how much I love it too. Your mouth and teeth on me,” he shivered, just the thought enough to stoke the fire already burning in his blood higher, “You can make my mind just _stop_ and it never scares me because you make it feel better than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life.” 

That was probably the greatest compliment he could ever get from Sherlock and John felt humbled and happy for it. “I love you.” He hurried to undo Sherlock’s trousers and pull them down along with his pants. Then he leaned in and nosed at the crease where thigh and groin met, breathing in the scent of Sherlock. John nosed at his balls and erection before licking a gleaming drop of precome from Sherlock’s flushed cockhead.

Sherlock moaned, low and long, and the fingers of one hand began to sift through John’s sandy hair. He toed off his shoes and socks, stepping out of the last of his clothes, “I have plans for the morning you know. Sunrise to be exact.” He pitched his voice exactly the way he knew made John focus on nothing more than the both of them being as naked as possible as soon as possible, “but I’ve ideas for now too.”

“Mmm, what sort of ideas?” John looked up at Sherlock as he flicked his tongue up and down Sherlock’s shaft in quick kitten licks even as he worked on getting rid of his own trousers, not the easiest thing since he was on his knees. When there was a will there was a way though and John definitely wanted to be naked with his husband.

Another soft moan came from him but he also smiled slyly, “The bathtub, quite big enough for two.”

“Fuck yes.” John could already picture them in the tub, wet bodies sliding against each other, inside each other. Oh yes, that was a wonderful idea indeed. “As always you are absolutely brilliant.” John showed his appreciation for Sherlock’s fantastic mind by swallowing his cock down whole.

This time it was a sharp cry that echoed off the walls of the bathroom. His voice was huskier when he resumed speaking, “Oh, oh that’s good. Fuck. Your mouth,” he chewed on his bottom lip a little bit, “The ah...acoustics in a bathroom are perfect you know. We’ll hear everything louder than usual ummmn,” his head fell back at a particularly enthusiastic suck, “and it will echo a bit too.”

John pulled his mouth off Sherlock’s cock with a slow suck and an obscene pop. He blew lightly on the saliva slick erection before looking up at Sherlock with hooded eyes. “Best of all, we don’t even have to attempt to be quiet. Soundproof suite, we can be as loud as we want to be.” The corners of John’s mouth kicked up with the beginning of a smile before he dove back in, this time sucking in first one ball, then the other into his mouth, laving his tongue over the soft orbs. Then he turned his attention back to Sherlock’s erection, swallowing it again. He was quite proud of how skilled he’d become at giving a good blowjob without choking.

“John,” it was moaned out and Sherlock let himself just bask in the attention and absorb the intense pleasure already creeping through him for a few moments. Then he slipped onto his knees as well and caught John’s mouth with his, twining their tongues around each other as his hands stroked and played over John’s skin, fingers going to his nipples to flick them.

He moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, arching his back and pushing his chest further into Sherlock’s hands, silently begging for more touch. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, down over his neck, back and finally cupped his husband’s absolutely glorious arse, squeezing the cheeks as he continued to pour his soul into long drugging kisses.

Sherlock complied with the wordless request, touching, pinching, and gently twisting John’s nipples as he rolled his hips forward, rubbing their erections against each other.

“Oh God! Oh...Fuck.” John trembled at the dual sensations, he canted his own hips forward, his erection leaking against Sherlock’s. He threw a look at the tub that was almost completely filled now. “In...ah, in the tub...I want you to ride me, want to watch you fuck yourself on my cock...Please.”

“Oh _God_ yes,” he sucked on John’s bottom lip before rising, hands linked with his husband’s, to step backward into the tub, the steamy water swirling around his legs.

John watched Sherlock with utter adoration as he followed him into the bathtub, the hot water being a bit of a shock after having been kneeling on the cool marble floor. It felt amazing though. He noticed the basket with silicone based lube in it resting on the edge of the tub and sent his new brother in law a silent thank you before firmly pushing all thoughts of Mycroft Holmes out of his head. “How could I become so lucky? You are so lovely.”

Sherlock eased them both down into the water so that he was straddling John’s lap and kissing his jaw, “You were just you. You don’t know,” he brought John’s left hand to his mouth, kissing the fingertips, “I can’t...there aren’t any words I have for it, for how it felt and still feels to be looked at, seen for everything I am, and not condemned for it. To be praised for it rather than considered a ‘freak’ or psychopath. To be loved when I long ago thought that far out of my grasp.”

“You should be praised, you should be praised every single day for the extraordinary person you are. I’m not just talking about your mind though that is truly brilliant but your soul as well. You shine Sherlock, dazzle me with how wonderful you are.” John cupped Sherlock’s cheek, rubbing his thumb over a perfectly sculpted cheekbone. “Every day I learn something new about you and every day I love you even more.”

He leaned into the loving touch, “I called you a conductor of light once, I didn’t have it exactly right. You’re more like a...a prism. So many faucets and angles, you take me in at my rawest and help untangle everything so it comes out ordered the right way and sometimes even beautiful. Without you I’d burn to nothing John,” he turned his head to kiss the center of John’s palm, “I love you.”

It was like the most perfect gift hearing Sherlock say those words. It made warmth spread throughout his entire body. For three years he’d thought he lost Sherlock and now here they were, married, bonded for life. John had asked Sherlock for a miracle and he’d gotten it. “I love you too, you are my reason, my everything.” He ran his free hand over Sherlock’s flank, reaching behind him and cupping his bum once more.

Sherlock slicked his hands over John’s shoulders and pressed his mouth to his husband’s in a slow, emotionally charged kiss. The scar tissue under his right hand was soon being mapped out with his fingers. He’d memorized that scar by now but it still always got attention, always was measured and explored because it was proof of John’s survival. Proof of life, of fallibility, of just how wonderfully _human_ and normal his John was and yet he was here with him, the ‘freak’ and disappointment. 

He moved his mouth off John’s to replace his right hand with it, kissing and laving smooth scar tissue as his hands began exploring the rest of John’s body once again.

John made a purring sound of contentment and reached out for the lube bottle to slick up his fingers. He wanted Sherlock thoroughly prepared, not just water easing the way. Though they both liked it rough sometimes, John would rather cut his own limbs of with a dull, rusty knife than hurt Sherlock in any way. Sex was supposed be pleasurable. He leaned forward and sucked a pale pink and perfect nipple into his mouth as his first finger slid inside Sherlock.

A pleased moan bounced off the bathroom walls and Sherlock arched into both the finger sliding into him and the mouth around his nipple. John could have just gone in with both fingers, they had sex often enough that it wouldn’t have even twinged uncomfortably, but he rather liked it when John used a slow stretch to prepare him. 

It was an amazing feeling, to feel Sherlock slowly relaxing and opening up around his finger. His own cock twitched in anticipation as John continued to nibble and suck at Sherlock’s nipples. He added another finger and found Sherlock’s prostate with practiced ease, rubbing his fingers over the gland even as he scissored them and stretched Sherlock’s tight inner walls. 

He purred, moaned and mewled out encouragement and enjoyment, pressing back into the fingers inside him. “God please John. I want you inside me soon.” He shifted so that he could slip a hand between them, wrapping it around John’s cock, stroking up and down in smooth, slow slides.

“Nnnnggh, I want that too, want to feel you surrounding me...So hot and tight and perfect. Want to feel you move and clench around my cock as you ride me.” John was actually trembling as he hurriedly added one last digit, making sure Sherlock was as prepared as he could be before he reached for the lube bottle again, pouring some of the slick liquid into Sherlock’s palm. “Here, slick me up love.”

He smoothed the lube over John’s shaft, flicking his thumb over the head before shifting up to his knees and angling his hips to bring it to his entrance. He pressed down, moaning as John’s cock slid into him, stretching him wide open. “Oh. Oh yes.”

“Christ, so fucking good, so, so, so good.” John was moaning, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing as he did his best to keep from coming straight away. Sherlock felt amazing around him. He placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips to help guiding him up and down and leaned forward to bite and suck at Sherlock’s neck. “I love you husband mine.”

A low keen was all the answer Sherlock was capable of. The position they were in hit places inside him they’d yet to have explored and felt incredible in new ways. Plus there was the biting. He really didn’t know why the biting affected him so much but it did and he was _not_ complaining. He lifted and lowered on John’s prick, moaning with each long slide and moving faster with each thrust. Tension slowly crept across his body, building and mounting and driving all thoughts out of his head.

John licked a broad stripe down Sherlock’s neck and over his collarbone before biting down on a rounded shoulder. His husband’s neck already wore several bright bite marks and purple hickeys. John was a doctor, he shouldn’t bite and suck like he did but he wanted to, he had spoken the truth when he said he loved seeing Sherlock marked by him. It soothed his possessive side he supposed. John moved one hand from Sherlock’s hip to curl it around his husband’s straining erection. He stroke with long, sure movements of his hand, he himself was so close to coming and he wanted to bring Sherlock over the edge with him.

“God, oh God, John,” Sherlock whimpered and moved almost desperately, striving for the release that seemed just out of reach, “Good so...God...you...love...my John...fuck please.” He panted and whined and moaned and leaned back, stretching his body into an arch to grip the lip of the tub and change the angle of John inside him to strike just right, drawing a sharp cry of John’s name from him and suddenly he was just there. The tension overwhelmed him then snapped, making him come, tightening around John’s cock as he shuddered in the throes of orgasm.

A strangled shout of Sherlock’s name left John’s throat and he raised his hips, thrusting into Sherlock’s contracting insides, chasing his own climax. He grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down to lick into his mouth as his balls tightened, his back arched and he pulsed inside his husband, coming so hard he saw stars before his eyes.

Sherlock found himself sucking on John’s tongue in between shivers of aftershocks and just clung, tightly, as the water swirled around them like a warm embrace. He pulled away to catch his breath, pressing his face into John’s neck, panting softly. 

“That...that was amazing!” John was breathing deeply too, moving to run his fingers through Sherlock’s damp hair soothingly, his other hand releasing Sherlock’s prick and rubbed circles on his husband’s lower back. His spent erection slipped out of Sherlock and John shuddered at the sensation. “First lovemaking as a married couple...wow.”

“Succinctly put,” he nuzzled John’s neck affectionately before reaching out to turn off the water before it ran out of the tub onto the floor. 

“Sometimes, simple words are the best. At least they are heartfelt.” John smiled and wrapped both arms around Sherlock, holding him tight so their bodies were pressed together. 

“Mmm true,” Sherlock practically melted into John, the water making them slip against each other a little bit. He wiggled a hand between them and pressed it over John’s heart. It had grown to be a habit to do that in quiet, comfortable moments with him.

“It beats for you, all for you.” John hummed softly under his breath, feeling perfectly content at the moment. The water was still hot and he had the man he loved in his arms, had his husband in his arms. He wondered if he would ever grow tired of using that word, husband. Right now he could not see that happening. He was blissfully happy.

_**~Finis.~** _


End file.
